


Look into my eyes and tell me if I'm real

by cyanspark



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Dehumanization, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Identity Issues, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanspark/pseuds/cyanspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's found in the water by strangers and interrogated for reasons he doesn't know. They tell him his name is the Winter Soldier and he tried to steal their intel, but he doesn't remember any of this. All he knows for sure is that he is a weapon, not a person. But the man with blond hair and blue eyes is trying to tell him that that's not true, either.</p>
<p>In the absence of information, you take what other people give you. It’s not trust; it’s necessity. When you have nothing, you can’t afford to wonder if they might not be telling you the whole truth.</p>
<p>(An AU where Steve Rogers isn’t a man out of time, SHIELD is locked in a war with Hydra, and Bucky Barnes was laid to rest in a cemetery. Or so everyone thought.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look into my eyes and tell me if I'm real

**Author's Note:**

> Please see tags for warnings, and let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> …I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. This was just supposed to be a dream fragment that I decided to jot down because reasons; it somehow turned into a 20,000-word monster that went through like 100 rewrites and consumed my life for months.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta-reader, who put up with my whining and encouraged me to believe this wasn’t just a trashy worddump.
> 
> (See end notes for the major spoiler.)

_i. tabula rasa_

 

Water.

The first thing he hears is running water, all around him. He tries to breathe, but water rushes into his lungs and he coughs, trying to force it back out. Fresh waves of pain wrack his body at the effort.  
  
The sunlight is harshly bright against his eyelids. There’s a voice, but he can’t make out the words. He tries to open his eyes, but the sun blinds him, and he can’t see anything other than faceless shadows.  
  
People.  
  
Threats.  
  
He is slow, too slow. He tries to get up from the water, but the cold metal barrel of a gun presses against his forehead and he finds himself staring up at a steely-eyed woman.  
  
“Don’t move,” she says, through clenched teeth.  
  
His gaze flickers from her face to her trigger finger and back again. Who is this woman? Why does she want to kill— _doesn’t matter_. She wants to kill him. But she’s hesitating.  
  
He slaps the gun away with his left hand—it’s made of metal, was it always made of metal?—and dive-rolls away as the gun goes off with a deafening bang. He doesn’t have any guns of his own. Knife should be strapped to his—no. Then there should be one on his—not there, either. No weapons. Where the hell are his weapons? He tries to remember what happened, how he ended up here...but his entire memory is a blank.  
  
Not helpful.  
  
Metallic clicks—ten—no, twelve, one for each armored soldier fanned out in a circle around him and the woman. Twelve assault rifles aimed at his chest.  
  
Very bad odds.  
  
“Get on your knees. Put your hands behind your head,” the woman says, her gun still trained on him. “No sudden movements.”  
  
They mean to take him alive, then.  
  
He does as she says, sinking to his knees on the gritty wet sand. He hears one of the soldiers moving behind him, something metal scraping against his right wrist—  
  
He lashes out, hitting the soldier in the solar plexus. Grabs the handgun from his belt—  
  
Something pinches his neck, and everything grows soft and fuzzy and—the world slips away from him into darkness.  
  
*  
  
He comes to again in a small gray room.  
  
 _Careless,_ he berates himself. He was careless, and he got captured. That’s what he deserves for being so careless.  
  
There’s nothing in the room except a table and the chair he’s sitting on. His hands are chained together with some kind of thick, deadbolt handcuffs. His ankles are also chained, and he’s bound to his chair. His eyes flit to the starkly blank walls and the pane of black glass opposite him. Interrogation room. No exit except for the door (promising, if he can get himself unchained) and possibly the glass, if his metal arm is strong enough to break it (was it always made of metal?).  
  
He’s just thinking about how to get out when the door swings open and a tall, dark-skinned man with an eyepatch over one eye walks in. He has no armor or visible weapons on him; all he’s wearing is a black shirt, black pants, and black trenchcoat.  
  
“So, Winter Soldier,” the man begins, “you decide to go for a swim this morning?”  
  
The question makes no sense to him.  
  
“Who’s the Winter Soldier?” he asks. His voice is alien-sounding to his own ears. It’s rough and harsh, like rusted metal.  
  
The other man’s eye narrows. “You like playing games, huh? Well, how ‘bout this—if you don’t answer the questions, it’s your head on the chopping block.”  
  
Apparently _he_ is the Winter Soldier, then. At least he now has a name to refer to himself with. But he’s not exactly sure what he can say to his questioner, considering his memory is still a blank.  
  
“Let’s start with who you work for.”  
  
For some reason, this question rankles him. “I don’t...work for anyone,” he says, but his voice sounds unsure to his own ears.  
  
The other man slams his hands down on the table with a loud thud. “In case you didn’t understand me, I said _start talking._ If you don’t, we’ve got ways to _make_ you talk.”  
  
The Winter Soldier stares back and says nothing as his left arm twitches, trying to find a weak spot in his handcuffs.  
  
The man leans closer. A mistake. “Are you really—”  
  
He slams his head forward, hearing a crunch and a bellowed swear. He raises his arms to bring the cuffs down on the man’s head, but suddenly the door bangs open, something stings his neck—and everything goes dark again.  
  
*  
  
This time, when consciousness comes back to him, he’s not alone.  
  
There’s a different man sitting across from him at the table. He’s wearing a blue shirt and navy jacket; no protection or weapons at all. He has blond hair, broad shoulders, and a hesitant smile, but there’s also a stunned look in his blue eyes, as though he’s just looked into the heart of the sun.  
  
“Hi,” he says, sounding strangely breathless.  
  
The Winter Soldier blinks. It’s a strange way to begin an interrogation. “Hi,” he responds warily, more out of reflex than anything else.  
  
He thinks about the distance between them and how he might be able to reach over and seize the man’s unguarded neck. But the man is looking at him with a strangely open, sincere expression, and he doesn’t understand it. Is it supposed to be a ploy?  
  
“So...Winter Soldier, right?” the man starts. “Do you have a name—I mean, an _actual_ name? Because I’m going to feel silly calling you that.”  
  
The Winter Soldier stares at him for a moment. “No.”  
  
The man raises an eyebrow. “‘No’ as in, you don’t want to say?”  
  
As in, he doesn’t _know._ They are calling him the Winter Soldier, so in the absence of any other information, he supposes that is who he must be, but he doesn’t feel a flicker of recognition at that name, let alone any other name.  
  
“Um. Okay...Winter...Soldier.” The man coughs and clears his throat. “I guess you already know who I am.”  
  
He keeps staring. “No.”  
  
The other man’s eyes widen at that. He swallows. “You...don’t know?”  
  
“No,” he repeats. “Should I?”  
  
The man appears to think for a moment. “I’m, ah, Steve Rogers. You can call me Steve.” He gestures at the Winter Soldier’s restraints, after a pause. “I’m sorry about all this.”  
  
The Winter Soldier watches him, unsure of where this is going.  
  
“I, uh…” Steve clasps and unclasps his hands for a moment before asking, “What’s the first thing you remember?”  
  
He figures there’s no harm in telling this much. “Waking up in the water,” he replies. He frowns. “Someone tranquilized me.”  
  
“And before that?”  
  
Every instinct tells the Winter Soldier to keep silent, but there’s something about the way Steve is looking at him. Something that makes him speak.  
  
“I don’t remember.”  
  
Steve inhales sharply. “You don’t remember... _anything_?”  
  
“That’s what I said.”  
  
“Oh.” Steve sounds profoundly bothered. “That’s...wow. I’m so sorry.”  
  
He frowns. “For what?”  
  
“I mean, you must feel awful right now.”  
  
He looks at Steve blankly, unable to understand why Steve seems so distressed. It’s merely an annoying inconvenience.  
  
“Look,” Steve goes on, “it’s not fair to throw you in a cell if you don’t remember—if you don’t remember anything.”  
  
The Winter Soldier inhales slowly. He feels his brows draw together. “Do you...know me?”  
  
Steve gives him a shaky, almost painful-looking smile.  
  
“Well...um...the Winter Soldier is the codename for a skilled secret operative who’s evaded capture or even identification for years.” He takes a deep breath. “We were hoping to ask you about...some...intel you stole from us a few days ago, but if you really can’t remember anything…” Steve shrugs. “There’s not much point, is there?”  
  
No, the Winter Soldier thinks, no, there isn’t. But what surprises him is how _easily_ Steve Rogers believes him. He could have been lying. The one-eyed man certainly thought he was. Should it bother him, how naïve Steve Rogers is?  
  
“So,” he manages to say. “What now?”  
  
Steve regards him. “Director Fury wants you in a cell, but I’d...I’d like you to work with us.”  
  
At first he thinks he heard wrong. Then he’s sure it’s a joke. But Steve isn’t laughing.  
  
“Why?” he asks, blankly.  
  
“Let’s just say that I’m a big fan of giving people second chances. SHIELD—the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division—exists to protect people, so I’m sure we can think of something.” He shrugs. “What do you say?”  
  
It takes a long moment of silence before the Winter Soldier realizes Steve is waiting for an answer. That his question isn’t rhetorical. “You’re...asking me?”  
  
Steve’s brows furrow. “It wouldn’t exactly be a job if I had to force you to do it, right?”  
  
Except the Winter Soldier is a prisoner. He expects orders, not questions, and _this_ question unsettles him, just like Steve’s open, easy trust did earlier. Why does Steve Rogers care what he wants? He is a weapon. He doesn’t have wants or preferences. He doesn’t get _choices._  
  
This bothers him. It bothers him a lot.  
  
“So what do you want?” Steve prompts.  
  
“I don’t _know_ ,” he snaps, suddenly feeling annoyed. “I’m your prisoner. You’re supposed to tell me what to do, not the other way around.”  
  
Steve’s frown deepens. “You’re still a person. You deserve—”  
  
“I’m not a person,” he corrects coldly.  
  
Steve looks like he’s just been slapped in the face.  
  
“Then...what are you?” he asks, unsteadily.  
  
The Winter Soldier thinks the answer should be obvious. “A weapon.”  
  
Steve folds his hands on the table and bows his head, as though he’s deep in thought. When he looks up, there’s a shadow in Steve’s eyes that looks a lot like concern.  
  
For _him._  
  
 _...What?_  
  
“Listen,” Steve says, faltering a little, “I...I don’t know how you ended up this way. Why you think you’re…” He stops, and clears his throat, as though the words are getting stuck there. “But if you need help...if someone did this to you...I can help. I promise.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the Winter Soldier responds. Why in the _world_ does Steve look like he’s on the verge of tears?  
  
The Winter Soldier doesn’t understand this man. Not his open eyes, not his easy smile, not his nonsensical speech and _certainly_ not the imploring tone in his voice. Steve Rogers bothers him like an itch beyond the reach of his fingers, and he badly wants to escape and not have to wonder about him anymore.  
  
He thinks about it. Looks at Steve’s exposed neck, his relaxed posture, tries to calculate how quickly he could do it. Steve Rogers is just another obstacle. He should not be hesitating about getting rid of an obstacle. _Collateral damage._  
  
Steve leans forward and drags his hands over his face. When he’s done, he’s clear-eyed again, and he folds his arms across his chest. “Just give me an answer.” He pauses. “Please?”  
  
The Winter Soldier exhales in a hiss of breath. This is not how it’s supposed to work. But Steve’s face is an open book, with expectation and hope and anxiety written all over it, and he’s not supposed to be looking at him like that, he’s supposed to be looking at him with the same hostility as the one-eyed man and the woman with the gun, why is he _looking_ at him like that? As though the Winter Soldier is a person?  
  
“Please,” Steve repeats, his voice soft.  
  
“Fine,” the Winter Soldier snaps. He breathes in slowly, uncurling his flesh and metal fingers against the surface of the table. “Fine.”  
  
“Great.” Steve smiles back, eyes alight with an emotion the Winter Soldier can’t place.  
  
He doesn’t understand this man. Doesn’t understand him at all.  
  
*  
  
They bring him to a room that seems much nicer than a cell, which confuses him for a little bit until he finds that the door is locked from the inside and the windows are barred with metal that resists his left arm. So it _is_ a cell, but...nicer, for reasons he doesn’t understand.  
  
There’s a lot he doesn’t understand, since he woke up.  
  
He’s not allowed any weapons. He supposes that is to be expected, but even though he knows he can kill men with his bare hands, he still feels naked without a knife or gun within reach, until he’s finally summoned, transported to some undisclosed location via helicopter, and given a standard SHIELD-issue jacket and a sniper rifle.  
  
“You get twelve shots,” Agent Sharon Carter tells him, stony-faced. She is the woman who first found him, who’d put a gun to his head. “Once you run out, just sit tight until everything’s done.”  
  
Apparently she doesn’t agree with Steve’s plan. He ignores the obvious suspicion and distrust on her face; there’s nothing he can really say to change her mind. The weight of a weapon in his hand, the assignment of a mission with clear orders—this is familiar, at least, and that soothes him.  
  
“Only twelve shots?” the Winter Soldier asks, hefting the sniper rifle.  
  
Sharon narrows her eyes. “Those are your orders, soldier. See to it that you follow them.”  
  
So he lies down on a rooftop with his eye behind the scope, watching their assault squad. He wasn’t told much about the mission, except that his only role is to provide cover for Steve. And he does, dropping hostile soldiers the instant they appear.  
  
After the mission, when the one-eyed man—Fury—arrives with another squad of SHIELD soldiers and the Winter Soldier goes to join them, Steve has a strangely smug smile on his face.  
  
“ _Don’t_ say ‘I told you so,’” Fury says, scowling.  
  
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Steve replies serenely.  
  
Fury turns to the Winter Soldier and gives him a grudging look of appraisal. “Maybe you’ll be useful after all.”  
  
SHIELD soldiers start to bag and carry off the fallen bodies to waiting vehicles. He moves to follow them, but Steve catches his arm. Gently, with no hostile intent.  
  
“Hey.” His voice is soft, like a summer breeze. “Nice job.”  
  
The Winter Soldier stares at him, stares at those eyes like a noon sky. He’s not—he’s not supposed to receive praise. He is a weapon; this is only what he’s supposed to do. But some long-forgotten instinct creaks to life in a dark, abandoned corner of his mind, and he speaks a word that he can’t remember ever saying before.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
It feels rusty in his mouth, sounds wrong in the air, but Steve’s eyes light up as though he’s just been given a gift. “You’re welcome.”  
  
He tilts his head to the side and blinks.  
  
*  
  
The second time they send him out into the field, it’s to infiltrate a warehouse to steal intel, and he’s no longer on sniper duty. They’re supposed to get the job done quietly, but a guard catches sight of them, and everything dissolves into chaos.  
  
The Winter Soldier doesn’t think. Everything is a rush of gunshots and shouts and vital areas to target. The chaos is familiar, almost welcoming. He grabs guns from the soldiers, not even bothering to reload as he fires one after another.  
  
He points his gun at the last agent, but she has her hands in the air, eyes wide on her face, and she’s shouting, “Wait! Please don’t shoot!”  
  
He hesitates. There’s a warm hand on his arm—Steve’s—gently pushing his gun down. “What do you want?” Steve asks.  
  
“I don’t want to work for Hydra,” the woman babbles in a rush. “But if they knew I wanted to leave they’d—they’d—”  
  
“It’s okay,” Steve says in a gentle voice, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay. Let’s get you out of here.”  
  
The Winter Soldier only watches, trying to understand.  
  
*  
  
The next day, the Winter Soldier is informed that, in return for his recent cooperation, he’s allowed to walk around the first floor of the building, minus the lobby, between the hours of one to four in the afternoon.  
  
He expects to have a guard supervise him, but instead they simply hand him a tourist’s map and leave him alone. He raises his head and eyes the cameras on the ceilings, which gaze back at him with their wide glass lenses. So they decided to cut down on manpower and watch him from a distance instead. Makes sense.  
  
His second question is: where in the world is he supposed to go?  
  
He spends another fifteen minutes studying the map before he picks a direction at random and starts walking. He finishes making a turn around the entire floor, and, not knowing what else to do, walks around again.  
  
With a jacket sleeve tugged over his metal arm, he supposes he must look inconspicuous, because plenty of SHIELD agents rush back and forth without sparing him a second glance. Most of them look hassled, perhaps too distracted to question his presence. “Hydra,” he hears, and “need to figure out their plan before…” and “some kind of new bioterrorist attack?”  
  
He doesn’t understand the snatches of conversation, but he files this all away carefully in the back of his head.  
  
It’s on one of these rounds when he finds Steve in the SHIELD complex’s enclosed grass-and-stone courtyard, sitting on a wooden bench underneath the bright sun with a pad and pencil in his hands. At first he thinks Steve is writing, but then he realizes Steve is drawing what looks like a bunch of flowers.  
  
“Sunflowers,” Steve explains, without raising his head. “Always liked the fact that they turn their heads to follow the sun. It makes them seem more... _alive,_ somehow.”  
  
The Winter Soldier doesn’t know what to say to that, but he stops and watches for a little while, noticing every little frown Steve makes before adding another petal or leaf with quick strokes of graphite, and the small, satisfied smile Steve has when he leans back to look at his picture. He’s not sure why a pencil drawing of flowers would make Steve happy, but he finds himself studying that expression of pure, simple joy.  
  
“Why didn’t you kill that agent?” the Winter Soldier finds himself asking. “It could have been a trap.”  
  
“Hm.” Steve turns toward him. “And what if we’d shot her and she wasn’t lying? We would’ve killed an innocent person.”  
  
“Collateral damage,” the Winter Soldier replies tonelessly. “It’s inevitable.”  
  
Steve looks at him with surprise on his face, and a shadow of something in his eyes that makes the Winter Soldier feel strangely uneasy.  
  
“I can’t accept that,” Steve says quietly. “I may have to shoot a gun in a war, but I’m not going to take a single life I don’t have to. I don’t have that right.”  
  
The Winter Soldier fights the urge to shift back and forth on his feet under the weight of Steve’s gaze. The sun suddenly feels hot on his hair, on the back of his neck.  
  
“What about you?” Steve’s voice is soft, but it feels loud in the stillness. “What do you think?”  
  
“I don’t think,” he says. “I only follow orders.”  
  
“C’mon, you’ve got to have _some_ kind of opinion.”  
  
He wants to say no, he _doesn’t_. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t ask questions. He is a weapon, not a person.  
  
Except Steve is looking at him with something that looks a lot like _hope_ on his face, and the Winter Soldier doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want to disappoint him.  
  
“I guess it would be unfair,” he says at last.  
  
Steve smiles at him then, his eyes so bright they seem to light something inside the Winter Soldier’s chest.  
  
Feeling confused and unsettled all of a sudden, the Winter Soldier gestures at Steve’s sketchpad. “You draw?”  
  
“Ah.” Steve has a small, sheepish smile. “I wasn’t always...I used to be just a regular guy. An art student, to be exact.”  
  
The Winter Soldier finds this difficult to believe.  
  
“I always wanted to be a police officer,” Steve goes on. “Bu—my...best friend joined, but I didn’t think I could make it, because I was too small and had asthma.  
  
“Then I got a late growth spurt—shot up half a foot in a few weeks. I was already in art school by that time, so I didn’t really think about trying to join the force. But one day I accidentally walked into a SHIELD agent trying to stop a Hydra member from stealing some chemicals.”  
  
“Hydra?” the Winter Soldier echoes. It’s the same word he’s heard other SHIELD agents throw around, the same word that enemy agent had spoken.  
  
Steve hesitates, but only for a moment. “They’re the group we’ve been fighting against. We thought we’d destroyed them four years ago, but…” He grimaces. “Their motto is, ‘Cut off one head, two more will take its place.’ Basically, they’re a bunch of biological terrorists. They want to improve the human race by any means possible—even if it takes a lot of dead bodies to get there.”  
  
He pauses and watches the Winter Soldier as though he’s looking for something. But the Winter Soldier isn’t sure what that is.  
  
“I helped stop the Hydra guy, but I got shot in the process. There was a doctor—Dr. Erskine—who saved my life. Turns out he was ex-Hydra.” He pauses. “They weren’t always so bad, you know? At first, they really wanted to help people. To find cures for terminal diseases, regrow organs, prolong people’s lives.” He sighs. “I don’t know when it happened, but at some point, they crossed the line and they’ve never gone back. So I joined SHIELD to help stop them.”  
  
“Even after you got shot?”  
  
Steve smiles wryly up at him. “Hey, I’m pretty tough, you know. Besides, all I’ve ever wanted was to help people, and I’m happy I got that chance with SHIELD.”  
  
The Winter Soldier looks at him. There’s something about the expression on Steve’s face that makes him want to stand there and watch for a long time.  
  
*  
  
The third time he’s sent out on the field, the Winter Soldier tries to limit the number of casualties to a minimum. Steve must have noticed, because at the end of the mission he gives the Winter Soldier a smile.  
  
The Winter Soldier thinks he likes it when Steve smiles.  
  
*  
  
The fourth time, the Winter Soldier ends up fighting an escaped Hydra agent on a rooftop whom he’s supposed to bring in alive for questioning. He almost has the agent unconscious when the agent throws him off balance and they both fall off the building.  
  
Before the Winter Soldier can save the both of them, someone grabs his arm as he falls, and the agent slips from his grasp.  
  
“I’ve got you,” Steve calls from above. “Hang on.”  
  
Steve pulls him up. The Winter Soldier glances over the edge at the agent’s broken body below, and he knows he’s failed.  
  
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.  
  
Steve frowns. “You would’ve been a pancake on the ground.”  
  
“I could have kept us both alive,” he insists. “Now I’ve failed the mission.”  
  
“But you could’ve died,” Steve protests. “Your mission isn’t more important than your life.”  
  
He blinks at that. It isn’t? “But…”  
  
“Hey.” Steve puts both hands on his shoulders. “We’ll find another guy, okay? Don’t risk your life like that. I don’t want to lose you.”  
  
“I’m replaceable,” the Winter Soldier says, perplexed.  
  
He knows, the instant the words leave his mouth, that he’s said something wrong. Because Steve’s eyes cloud over with confusion and then a horrible, leaden sadness, and his hands tighten on the Winter Soldier’s shoulders.  
  
“Don’t say that. No one’s replaceable, you’re not just some cog in a machine—” He takes a deep breath. “Just...be careful. Please?"  
  
The Winter Soldier puzzles over Steve’s words for a long time after that. He’s still puzzling over them when they return to SHIELD, and they echo in his mind as he leans in his bed and stares up at the dark ceiling, just before he drifts off to a dreamless sleep.

 

 

_ii. spaces between_

 

A sharp rap at his door in the morning wakes him up instantly.  
  
“You have new orders,” says Sharon Carter. “Get down to the west wing to meet Captain Rogers immediately.” She pauses for a moment, and then gestures at the door. “Also...you should know that your door will no longer be locked, so you can come and go whenever, but you’re still not allowed to go to the lobby or leave the building. Clear?”  
  
He nods.  
  
“Good.”  
  
When he shows up where he’s supposed to, he’s a bit surprised to find Steve alone.  
  
“Where are the others?” he asks.  
  
“No time.” Steve has his circular shield strapped to his back and is checking guns before he holsters them at his sides. “We have to rescue a captured SHIELD undercover agent. They could be torturing him as we speak, so let’s move.”  
  
They drive out to what looks like the headquarters for a pharmaceutical company, surrounded by a wire fence. Security is fairly light, and they make their way down to the basement levels without much trouble. The farther they descend, the more strongly the smell of formaldehyde saturates the air.  
  
“Ugh.” Steve covers his nose, whispering, “What _is_ that?”  
  
The Winter Soldier cautiously eases a door open and slides inside, gun pointed forward. The room is empty...save for various tubes with what appear to be brains floating inside.  
  
“What the _hell?_ ” Steve hisses, staring.  
  
The Winter Soldier glances around the rest of the room. No doors besides the one they came through; no windows—no other exits. “Target isn’t here.”  
  
“Right,” Steve mutters, snapping back to attention.  
  
They return to the hallway and keep checking rooms. Most of them contain nothing except deserted labs and chemical storage. Steve opens the door closest to the other end of the hallway—  
  
“Agent Sitwell!” Steve hisses as he rushes in. The Winter Soldier sees a man lying on a table. “Sitwell, can you hear me? Are you—”  
  
Steve stops dead. The Winter Soldier comes closer and realizes that the man’s eyes have rolled up in his head and there are traces of dried foam at the corners of his mouth. Steve seizes the man’s wrist. His eyes widen with horror.  
  
They’re too late.  
  
“No,” Steve breathes, almost sobs.  
  
The Winter Soldier glances at the door. “We should go.”  
  
Steve presses a hand against his eyes and then goes over to the corpse to pick it up. “Not without the body,” he whispers, half to himself.  
  
He walks past with a bleak expression, and the Winter Soldier can only wonder at what he’s thinking.  
  
*  
  
Even after they return, it’s like a part of Steve has broken off and slipped behind a shadow. He insists on staying with the body, yet even then, his eyes are distant, focused elsewhere.  
  
The Winter Soldier hovers nearby. He doesn’t like how quiet Steve is, but he has no idea what to do. He doesn’t know how to do anything other than kill, and he certainly has no idea how to fix people.  
  
When the clock ticks into the dead hours of the night, Sharon finally threatens Steve with bodily harm unless he gets some sleep. He walks like a ghost through the halls, and the Winter Soldier steals behind him, watching. Steve must know the Winter Soldier is there, especially once the Winter Soldier catches his door and slips into his room behind him, but he doesn’t even turn his head.  
  
Steve grabs a bottle of scotch from a small fridge and slumps down into a chair, forehead in his hand. His room is relatively empty, except for a few pieces of plain furniture and a handful of sketches taped to the walls. On the wall opposite the door is a wide window overlooking the city. It’s a liability; it could put them within reach of a sniper. The Winter Soldier quickly crosses over and yanks the curtains over to cover the glass, then turns back to watch Steve as he takes a long drink.  
  
“It was my fault,” Steve finally says.  
  
“He was already dead when you got there,” the Winter Soldier replies.  
  
Steve puts the bottle aside and rubs his eyes. “It was my responsibility. I _knew_ Jasper. He had a family...people who loved him...people who will grieve for him...and it’s not the first time I…” Steve’s eyes fall to the ground, his voice trailing off. He doesn’t finish his sentence.  
  
“You need rest,” the Winter Soldier says uncertainly, not knowing how else to help. When Steve doesn’t move, he loops his arm around Steve’s torso and half-supports, half-drags him to his bed. Steve leans against it, still staring off into the distance, and the Winter Soldier begins to head toward the door.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
He stops and turns back. Steve’s voice is strangely fragile and hesitant, and there’s something imploring in his expression, but he’s not sure what Steve wants from him.  
  
Steve whispers, “Don’t...don’t go.”  
  
He stays still as Steve approaches him slowly, as though expecting him to bolt at any second. Steve raises a quivering hand and leaves it in the air like a question. He looks at it, but still doesn’t understand.  
  
Steve breathes in sharply and lays his hand against the side of the Winter Soldier’s face. The Winter Soldier instinctively tenses, but the touch is...soft. Not hostile. The feeling is not...unpleasant, and the warmth of Steve’s fingers sliding against his skin is almost…comfortable. He inhales, leaning into Steve’s hand.  
  
Steve blinks rapidly, his mouth wrinkling and fluttering as though he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He pulls the Winter Soldier close. Suddenly, warm lips press against his own.  
  
The Winter Soldier knows a dozen way to kill a person, but he’s never been touched like _this_ before. Not with this kind of—tenderness. It’s...strange, at first, but then something jolts awake inside him and his heartbeat fills his ears, insistent, _loud._  
  
He is not a person. He is not supposed to want. But right now, he does—he _wants_. It runs like a fever in his veins, and the tension inside him releases as he tries to press back against Steve.  
  
Steve abruptly pulls away, and he wonders what he did wrong.  
  
“What?” he asks, his voice rough in the stillness.  
  
“I—this is wrong,” Steve mumbles. “I mean I’m—I’m not doing this for the right reasons.”  
  
The Winter Soldier looks at him, traces the furrow between his brows and the tightness of his jaw with his eyes. “Tell me.”  
  
Steve closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You...remind me of someone else. Someone who died a long time ago. And I don’t...I shouldn’t be treating you like a substitute.”  
  
The Winter Soldier places his left hand against Steve’s jaw and turns his face towards him. Steve raises his eyes reluctantly to meet his gaze.  
  
“I don’t care,” the Winter Soldier whispers harshly. And he doesn’t, because when he’s around Steve he feels...he feels... _something._ He’s not sure what it is, but he thinks it’s good. He’s nothing but a weapon with a title—he doesn’t have a name, he doesn’t have a past, he doesn’t have a soul. Until Steve came, spreading a light that seems to reach into him and touch something that he didn’t know he had, something that makes him yearn to be something more than he is.  
  
He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair and presses their mouths together, closing his eyes. And just for a moment, he thinks he _can_ have a soul.  
  
*  
  
“I can’t call you ‘Winter Soldier.’ You need a name.”  
  
The Winter Soldier rests his face against the crook of Steve’s shoulder. “Whatever you want,” he mumbles into Steve’s skin.  
  
Steve is stroking his hair, and it feels rhythmic, almost hypnotic. “Maybe—” He pauses for a long while. “Never mind.”  
  
The Winter Soldier doesn’t ask. He only slides his head down until his ear is resting against Steve’s chest and he’s listening to the slow, steady heartbeat.  
  
There’s a roundish scar just a few inches to the left of Steve’s heart, too shiny and raw to be that old. “You got shot?” he asks.  
  
Steve stiffens. “Y...yeah.”  
  
Considering where the scar is, he’s lucky to be alive. “You should be more careful.”  
  
After a pause, Steve gives a heavy sigh. “I guess I should.”  
  
He feels Steve’s fingers trace down his neck to his left shoulder, to the place where metal meets scarred flesh. He feels a question in that caress, but Steve doesn’t ask, probably because he wouldn’t be able to answer. How he lost his arm, how he got a metal one in return, it’s all a mystery to him.  
  
“Don’t you ever wonder where you came from?” Steve asks.  
  
“No,” the Winter Soldier answers honestly. He exists; that’s enough for him to know. He feels Steve’s frown in the darkness, though, so he adds, “Why, should I?”  
  
“It’s just…” Steve’s fingertips trail down one of the scars on the Winter Soldier’s chest. His voice is hushed, trembling at the edges. “There’s a lot of pain here.”  
  
He doesn’t like hearing Steve’s voice sound this way, so he catches Steve’s hand and laces their fingers together. “You shouldn’t worry about it.” After all, he doesn’t even remember where those scars came from, and he couldn’t care less.  
  
“But—”  
  
“No,” he says roughly. “Stop sounding so... _sad._ ”  
  
Steve looks as though he wants to argue, but the Winter Soldier curls up against him, and he sighs in defeat.  
  
“You’re a good person,” Steve says, his lips brushing against the Winter Soldier’s forehead.  
  
“I’m not a person,” the Winter Soldier murmurs.  
  
Steve is quiet for a while. “Maybe...maybe you _can_ be.”  
  
He doesn’t believe it, but he doesn’t want to argue with Steve.  
  
“Maybe,” he concedes.  
  
*  
  
The Winter Soldier is not supposed to want. He is supposed to follow orders and gather information, nothing more.  
  
But he finds himself standing in front of Steve’s door again, finds himself knocking. At first, Steve gives him a look of surprise and asks, curiously, “Why did you come back?”  
  
He has no answer to give except, “I...I...wanted to.”  
  
Something flickers in Steve’s eyes, but he’s not sure how to read it. Unease? Doubt? Hope?  
  
“Do you...want me to leave?” he asks roughly, unsteadily.  
  
Steve exhales, his gaze never leaving him.  
  
“No,” he breathes. “No.”  
  
Sometimes, during the night, the Winter Soldier hears Steve toss and turn and mutter the name “Bucky” in his sleep. He assumes this Bucky is that person who died long ago, and he thinks to himself that Bucky, whoever he is, must have been a selfish bastard to have gone and left Steve alone and still grieving after all this time.  
  
Whenever Steve wakes up from whatever nightmares he has, his eyelashes are heavy with tears; his shoulders shake with quiet sobs. The Winter Soldier doesn’t know what to do—he doesn’t know how to do anything other than kill—but it hurts to see the pain etched on Steve’s face, so he wipes away the tears with his right hand and lets Steve cling to him like a lifeline.  
  
“Bucky,” Steve sometimes mumbles to him. “Bucky.”  
  
It seems to comfort him, so the Winter Soldier stays silent.  
  
As for him, his sleep is cold and dreamless. He wakes up sometimes with a clenched jaw and a tautness in his chest, and it takes him a while to realize that he is terrified of the feeling of _emptiness_ that invades him in the brief space between sleep and wakefulness. He remembers that sense of purposeless drifting he felt when he first woke up on the riverbank, and he realizes he doesn’t want to go back to that. Not ever.  
  
*  
  
The blue-tiled bathroom adjoining Steve’s room has a mirror set against the wall, unlike the one attached to his cell, and it’s there where he first sees his face.  
  
He’s not sure it’s his own, at first, because he doesn’t recognize it at all. He carefully raises his right hand and places it against the cool mirror surface, watching intently as his reflection does the same. So this face—with a square jaw covered in stubble, chestnut-brown hair and grayish-blue eyes—belongs to him.  
  
He studies this face— _his_ face. He’s not sure what he feels.  
  
*  
  
“Do you ever laugh? Or smile?”  
  
They’re relaxing after a recon mission in the courtyard, which the Winter Soldier gathers is one of Steve’s favorite places. This time, Steve isn’t sketching; he’s just sitting on the bench, basking in the warmth of the sun, and the Winter Soldier is sitting next to him, watching the expression on his face.  
  
The Winter Soldier frowns at the question. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“I don’t know, I just...I’d like to see it some time.”  
  
“I can smile,” the Winter Soldier says defensively.  
  
Except...he has to think about it. It feels like he’s lost a hand and somehow gotten it back again, but he’s forgotten all the simple muscle movements that used to be instinctive. He pulls the corners of his mouth up, but it feels strained. Unnatural.  
  
Steve blinks. “Wow, uh, no. You can stop now.”  
  
“Wait.” He pictures himself on a mission where he has to befriend his target, then tries again.  
  
Steve shakes his head. “That’s not...a _real_ smile.”  
  
“I’m _trying._ ”  
  
“People smile when they’re happy. It’s not something you can force.”  
  
The Winter Soldier hates the look of disappointment on Steve’s face. He’s—he’s _sure_ he knows how to do it, but he doesn’t know why he can’t anymore. Though now that he thinks about it...does he even remember ever smiling before?  
  
“Well...what makes you happy?” Steve tries. “Like...a cup of coffee in the morning? A sunny day? The smell of freshly-baked bread?”  
  
Before, he would have said he didn’t feel happiness. He would have said he didn’t feel anything. Because people have emotions, and he is not a person.  
  
But now, looking at the expression on Steve’s face, he realizes he can’t say that anymore.  
  
“You,” he says, at last. “You make me happy.”  
  
There’s a startled look on Steve’s face, and then a faint flush of pleased embarrassment. “Uh...I’m glad?”  
  
Something wells up inside him at the sight of Steve’s expression, something bubbling and light and unfamiliar. He wishes he had the words to describe what he’s feeling, or that he could smile at Steve the same way Steve sometimes smiles at him.  
  
But he can’t, so he buries his head in Steve’s shoulder and simply breathes in and out.  
  
“Well,” Steve says, sounding contented, “I guess this is a start.”  
  
And the Winter Soldier can’t help wondering: is this what it feels like to be a person?  
  
He doesn’t know whether the idea pleases or frightens him.  
  
*  
  
 _“What do you think you’re doing?”_  
  
 _He should be able to take this fight, he_ should _, but he’s already disoriented and wounded, and he can’t get out of the way before the large, muscular man pins him to the ground. His head hits concrete, and agony spikes through his skull._  
  
 _“You’re not done,” the man spits. “You can’t escape.”_  
  
 _Fear and anger surge together through him. “I don’t—want to go back.”_  
  
 _And he doesn’t, god he doesn’t, he’s never wanted anything so badly in his life—at least, not that he can remember._  
  
 _“You don’t have_ wants, _Winter Soldier. You are not a person, you are a_ tool. _And if you don’t come back quietly—”_  
  
 _He slams his metal fist into the man’s face and tries to run for it, clutching his bruised chest. Something hits his temple and suddenly everything is blinding, electric pain, ricocheting in his skull—_  
  
 _He’s falling—_  
  
 _He hits water, and everything goes dark—_  
  
“Hey— _hey!_ ”  
  
Someone’s grabbing his arm, and he tries to lash out in the darkness, but a voice whispers, “It’s just me! You’re okay. You’re _okay._ ”  
  
He’s breathing hard. In the dim ambient light, he can see Steve’s face above him, brows furrowed with concern.  
  
“I…” He chokes on his own voice. “I was running...from someone…”  
  
Steve smooths a lock of hair away from his forehead. “It was just a dream.”  
  
“No, it wasn’t, I don’t get dreams.” He inhales, forcing air into his lungs. “I fell into a river.”  
  
Steve is quiet for a moment. “Are you saying...it’s a memory? Of what happened before SHIELD found you?”  
  
“I...I don’t know.” What he _does_ know is that the fear felt real—cloying, suffocating, sharp with panic. “I couldn’t escape...they wouldn’t…”  
  
“Shh.” Steve gently kisses the side of his throat. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”  
  
He closes his eyes and shudders against the feeling of Steve’s warm lips pressed to his neck. He tries to convince himself that it was nothing, that it means nothing. But that man’s voice echoes in his head, over and over in an unceasing loop. _You are not a person, you are a tool._  
  
And for the first time, the thought makes him deeply uneasy.  
  
*  
  
He wakes up in the middle of the night, tense, senses straining in the darkness. At first, he’s not sure why he’s awake. Steve is sleeping peacefully next to him, and everything is still. Normal.  
  
He’s about to drift off to sleep again when he hears something. The tiniest click in the silence.  
  
It’s the only warning he needs.  
  
He lunges, shoving Steve off the bed. Steve barely has time to let out a drowsy “Wha?” before they both hit the ground, just as a gunshot splits the air.  
  
The Winter Soldier doesn’t stop to think. He grabs a pillow and throws it _hard_ in the direction of the gunshot, hearing a muffled curse, before he launches himself at their assailant.  
  
Adrenaline surges through his veins. The man manages to land a few hits on him, but he barely feels anything; he grabs the man’s arm and twists it to the side, pressing the barrel of the assassin’s own gun against his temple. The Winter Soldier locks his left arm against the man’s throat and snarls, “Who sent you here?”  
  
There’s a sound of yelling and pounding footsteps from outside, and the man grimaces.  
  
“You—you’re not supposed to be here.”  
  
Steve’s voice holds panic. “Wait, don’t—!”  
  
The gun fires. The Winter Soldier swears as blood splatters across his face and the man goes limp. He drops the assassin and looks down at the body with disgust.  
  
“Oh my god—” Steve grabs his shoulder. “Are you okay?!”  
  
The Winter Soldier spits out the taste of blood and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m fine,” he says tersely, “but—”  
  
The door bangs open. He whirls around, ready to fight more opponents, but Steve sputters, “Nick? _Sharon?_ ”  
  
“We heard gunshots,” Sharon says, gun pointed into the room. “What the hell happened?”  
  
“An assassin,” Steve answers uncertainly, “but I don’t know—”  
  
Just then, Sharon’s gaze snaps to the Winter Soldier. Her eyes widen, and her gun swings to him. “What the _hell_ —?”  
  
“Sharon, calm down!” Steve steps forward and tries to push the gun away. “The blood’s from the assassin.”  
  
Her gun doesn’t waver. “But what’s he _doing_ here?”  
  
“I’m...on guard,” the Winter Soldier hedges.  
  
“Without a shirt on?” Fury says skeptically.  
  
“Oh for _god’s_ _sake_!” Sharon suddenly explodes, and Steve rubs a hand over his face, barely suppressing a groan. The Winter Soldier looks between them uncertainly.  
  
It seems like it’s going to be a long night.  
  
*  
  
“ _Steve. Have you._ Lost your _mind?_ ”  
  
They’re dressed, the Winter Soldier has washed the blood off his face, and now they’re sitting in one of the downstairs conference rooms while police officers canvas the crime scene.  
  
“It’s none of your business, Sharon,” Steve uncharacteristically snaps, but his face is red and he’s having trouble meeting her glare. The tension in his shoulders makes the Winter Soldier lean closer to him, even though he still has little idea why they’re arguing.  
  
Sharon’s mouth is a pale, knife-thin line. “ _He’s not Bucky._ ”  
  
“I _know_ that.”  
  
“Do you? Because I’m not so sure, Steve.”  
  
Steve drags his hands over his face. “Look, can we focus on the important things here—like the fact that he saved my life?”  
  
“And the fact that someone managed to breach your security,” the Winter Soldier cuts in roughly.  
  
“Yes, and yes, and people are working on trying to figure out what happened, but while we wait for them to finish, let’s talk about the fact that you’ve decided to latch on to a _psychopathic killer just because he looks like your dead boyfriend._ ”  
  
“Hey!” Steve protests hotly, cheeks flushing. “That’s not fair, Sharon.”  
  
The Winter Soldier frowns. “Psychopathic killer” seems exaggerated.  
  
Sharon’s mouth twists. She slams her palms against the table and stands up. “Fine. I’m going to go talk to Fury,” she says, voice tight, and storms away. The door slams shut behind her with a loud, angry crack.  
  
“Don’t worry about her.” Steve sighs. “She’ll come around eventually. She’s like a sister to me, she just...worries a lot.” He lays a hand on top of the Winter Soldier’s metal one, lacing their fingers together. “I’m sorry about what happened. It’s...unfortunate, but I’ve been targeted by assassins before.”  
  
The Winter Soldier looks calmly into his eyes. “I’ll protect you.”  
  
The corners of Steve’s mouth pull into a smile. There’s gratitude there, but also a strange shadow of grief.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispers.  
  
*  
  
They move to one of the nearby break rooms with a couch and a coffee machine. The Winter Soldier isn’t in the mood for sleep, and Steve doesn’t seem to be, either, so they sit on the couch in silence. Steve leans his elbow against the armrest and stares off into the distance, as though thinking about something, and the Winter Soldier watches him.  
  
“Tell me about Bucky,” the Winter Soldier says.  
  
Steve starts and looks at him, wide-eyed. “Uh...really?”  
  
The Winter Soldier shrugs. “Sharon mentioned him. You mention him too, sometimes.”  
  
Steve kneads his forehead with his knuckles and takes a deep breath. “We grew up together,” he begins, a bit unsteadily, though the corner of his mouth starts to curl upward in a faint smile. “We were both orphans, so we didn’t have anyone except each other. I was always getting into fights with bullies who were too big for me to handle, and Bucky was always trying to protect me.”  
  
Steve pauses.  
  
“He was always so bold. Cocky. Fearless. But he was the only one who ever stuck by my side, who never gave up on me.” His voice softens. “He never stopped, even after, you know, I got big enough so that bullies didn’t bother me anymore.”  
  
“You and he were...together.”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve sighs, at once wistful and mournful.  
  
Faded, silver early morning light starts to shine through the window. Steve gets up from the couch and puts a cup under the coffee machine, punching one of the buttons. He turns to the Winter Soldier. “Do you want one?”  
  
The Winter Soldier shakes his head.  
  
The room fills with the bitter smell of coffee. He waits until Steve returns to the couch with his steaming mug before he asks, “How did he die?”  
  
Steve winces.  
  
“Sorry—”  
  
“No, it’s okay.” Steve exhales and stares at his coffee. “It was my fault. I...I convinced him to join me in this special SHIELD squad to fight against Hydra. We tried to intercept one of their experimental shipments on a train, but things went wrong, and—he fell. Down a cliff.”  
  
There is a moment of silence again, before Steve looks up at him. “It just...it feels a little weird telling you all this.”  
  
The Winter Soldier frowns. “Why?”  
  
Steve opens his mouth to say something, but then the door suddenly opens and Sharon steps inside.  
  
“Would you like the bad news, or the worse news first?” she asks.  
  
Steve blinks over his coffee. “Uh...the bad news?”  
  
Sharon clears her throat. “The assassin just joined a few days ago as a staff worker. I guess he was intended to be a deep cover agent, because his background check didn’t turn up any red flags. At least we know to beef up our security now.”  
  
“I...guess that’s good to know. What’s the worse news?”  
  
“We’re having a hell of a time getting an ID off him, but based on the fact that he shot himself before we could question him...I’d say chances are good that he’s from Hydra.”  
  
Steve’s mouth twists. “Great. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. First hints of some new chemical that they’re pumping into test subjects to turn their brains into mush—and now another assassination attempt?”  
  
“Another?” the Winter Soldier echoes.  
  
Steve and Sharon’s heads both snap to him. “Uh—there was another one almost a week before we found you in the river,” Steve says carefully, as though he’s walking on eggshells.  
  
The Winter Soldier frowns. Something about Steve’s tone seems...off.  
  
“Anyway, it’s a good thing you were there,” Steve goes on, his words a little rushed. “Obviously he wasn’t prepared to...deal with you.”  
  
Amateurish, the Winter Soldier finds himself thinking. The whole thing was incredibly botched. Not to mention any assassin worth their salt would have been trained to withstand interrogation. And it had been a messy way out. He can still hear the gun firing, the recoil in his hand—  
  
The weight of the gun— _wait_ — _what_ —the weight of a gun—  
  
“In the meantime,” Sharon says, with distinct coolness, “I suggest you two go back to sleeping in different rooms. For security purposes.”  
  
Steve looks at the Winter Soldier, brows furrowing. He opens his mouth to speak, but something is nagging at the Winter Soldier, something—  
  
He—he had a gun. He raised it. He pressed the trigger—  
  
“...ear me? Hello?”  
  
He jerks. Steve is looking at him worriedly. “Are you all right? You had a weird look on your face for a moment.”  
  
He stares back. The gun—he had a gun, and he pointed it straight at Steve’s heart, but when—how— _why_ —  
  
“Hey,” Steve says. “Talk to me.”  
  
He tries to reach out, but the Winter Soldier staggers back.  
  
“Did I…” His throat feels like dust. He swallows hard. “Did I...shoot you?”  
  
He wants so badly for Steve to deny it, or to laugh and tell him he’s wrong, but instead Steve’s face pales and Sharon’s eyes narrow.  
  
“Um,” Steve starts, but stops. “Why do you ask?” he says, voice unsteady.  
  
“Then...I did?” he all but whispers.  
  
Sharon’s fingers drop to the holster at her side, but Steve puts a hand on her arm.  
  
“Listen,” he says, but his voice sounds so far away. The Winter Soldier isn’t breathing right, his head feels too light, his balance is off.  
  
What did he do?  
  
Why can’t he remember?  
  
Who is he?  
  
Who is he?  
  
Who—?  
  
Everything hurts, it _hurts_ , there’s pain in his head and where is it _coming_ from? He hears Steve calling after him in a panic, but his legs are already moving and he’s running, running from the questions that scream in his mind and close around his chest like an iron fist—  
  
*  
  
He remembers.  
  
He _remembers._  
  
 _“Kill Captain Steven Rogers. Close range. Make sure he sees your face.”_  
  
 _He thinks this sounds far too risky, but he’s not supposed to question his orders. He spends a few days watching the captain go about his daily routine and finally decides to catch him on his way to his morning run._  
  
 _He purposely stumbles into the captain on the sidewalk. Rogers exclaims, “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry, are you—”_  
  
 _He pulls out his gun and points it straight at the captain’s chest. But in the fraction of a second before he can pull the trigger, he looks into Rogers’s face. Those blue eyes go wide with shock._  
  
“Bucky?”  
  
 _His hand jerks. The bullet embeds itself in Rogers’s chest, but misses his heart. Rogers cries out as he staggers back, a hand flying to the wound, and the Winter Soldier stands there, frozen. Finish the mission, a voice in his head screams. Finish the mission,_ finish the mission—  
  
 _“Wait,” Rogers bites out, tears spilling out from his eyes. “Please—”_  
  
 _He bolts. He doesn’t stop running until he thinks he’s lost the trail of anyone who might’ve seen him. He’s failed his mission, he failed and they will punish him for his failure—_  
  
 _But—but Rogers looked at him as though he_ knew _him—_  
  
He’s sitting in the courtyard with his back hunched and his hands on his head, desperately trying to keep himself together, when he hears footsteps and feels a weight settle on the bench next to him. He doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Steve.  
  
“I remember,” he grates out. “I shot you. _I_ was that other assassin.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, his voice hushed and shaken. “I—”  
  
“I never stole intel from SHIELD. You were interrogating me back then because I—I’d tried to kill you. I shot you—” He makes an abortive movement to point at the scar under Steve’s shirt. The memory of it is too raw and painful.  
  
Steve swallows. His silence is answer enough.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” the Winter Soldier whispers.  
  
Steve hesitates. “You didn’t remember. I didn’t think...I didn’t think it would make a difference.”  
  
The Winter Soldier raises his head.  
  
“What else haven’t you told me?” he asks hoarsely.  
  
Steve’s eyes are fixed on the ground. “The...the Winter Soldier is an assassin with an estimated kill count of a dozen,” he says, his voice uneven, faltering. “Mostly officials, businessmen, powerful people. Some scientists, as well. A number of them were major allies of SHIELD.”  
  
Something in his stomach lurches. He should have known this. He should have _known._ Why else would violence be his first instinct? He’d never questioned himself—never questioned why all he knows is how to fight and maim and kill. Because he is a brainless _idiot._ The answer has been staring him straight in the face all this time.  
  
He is a weapon. He was never anything else _but_ a weapon.  
  
Cruel comprehension dawns on him.  
  
“You _used_ me,” he says flatly. “I’m just another tool.”  
  
“No,” and panic laces Steve’s voice, “it wasn’t like that!”  
  
“Then _why?_ ” the Winter Soldier almost shouts, getting to his feet. “Why else did you hide all this from me? Why did you pretend I wasn’t a murderer—that I hadn’t tried to _kill_ you? Why did you _trust_ me? Wasn’t it all so SHIELD could—use me as an—an asset?”  
  
“I—” Steve takes a deep breath. “At first we—we thought it would trigger some kind of ‘relapse’ if we reminded you, and you would try to kill me again, and then—” He winces. “Maybe Fury did think you could help SHIELD—”  
  
“So that’s what it was.”  
  
“No—that’s not—I didn’t tell you because I thought you could be a good person—”  
  
“ _I’m not a good_ —”  
  
He stops. Steve’s expression twists with pain, but right now, he doesn’t care.  
  
The Winter Soldier looks down. “I didn’t mind,” he grinds out. “I would’ve done anything for you—been the gun for you to point, been the ghost of your dead lover, _anything_ —but I thought—you made me think I could be something more. Something _better._ And that’s a lie, isn’t it? It’s all some cruel joke.”  
  
Steve stands up and reaches out for him. “Please—”  
  
“ _Don’t._ ” The Winter Soldier pushes him back with enough force to make him stumble back against the bench. Steve’s eyes are lost and miserable, and he has to force himself to turn around and run out of there. Out of the courtyard, through a service exit and out of the entire complex. He doesn’t know where he’s going, the city streets are all a blur; all he’s doing is asking himself _why?_ Why is this happening to him? He doesn’t want to be a murderer, a weapon with no control over who gets to pull the trigger, he only wants—he wants—  
  
He doesn’t know what he wants, but it’s not this.  
  
*  
  
He steals a coat, gloves, and hat. A small voice in the back of his head tells him Steve would be disappointed. He ignores that voice.  
  
He goes down to the river that cuts through the city like a slate-blue ribbon, and he crouches on the shore, in the damp, gritty sand. Pulling off the glove on his right hand, he runs his fingers through the cool water. This is where he woke up. He remembers falling into the river, the cold, hard impact. He remembers running, fighting, but why? He tries to think back, tries to remember—  
  
 _“What do you remember?”_  
  
 _Nothing, he lies, concentrating all his will on keeping his heartbeat steady and his breathing even. It’s almost the truth. He doesn’t remember his name, whether he always had a metal arm, or the identities of the people asking him questions._  
  
 _But he thinks there was something he wanted to remember. He doesn’t know what it is anymore, and that makes him feel—_ No. _He doesn’t feel. All he remembers is that he has to escape. (Why?) But he can’t let them know, can’t let them see. He remembers nothing, he lies._  
  
 _He must be convincing. They relax, and talk about how the asset has been successfully reset. He watches them levelly, waits for his chance._  
  
 _One night, he slips from his room and escapes._  
  
 _But he messes up. He messes up, and they send people after him, people to bring him in, where they will punish him and scrub him clean. He runs, fear chasing his heart rate and hurting his lungs because he has to escape, he can’t remember why but he_ has _to—_  
  
The Winter Soldier sits back on the shore and takes a deep, ragged breath, his fingers digging into his crossed arms hard enough to bruise. There’s an oily, nauseous taste on the back of his tongue. He has a feeling that any other memories he can unearth will be no less unpleasant.  
  
But he has to know.  
  
He leaves the river and walks through the city, keeping his cap tilted low over his face and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his stolen coat as he moves through the crowd. Whoever wanted to recapture him could still be looking for him. Not _could be_. _Is_.  
  
Something crawls down the back of his neck with cold fingers, and he looks up. Rooftops—a sniper could have him in their sights. He doesn’t have any weapons of his own. He’s too exposed on the street, he needs cover, he needs to _hide._  
  
It’s only then that he realizes how _safe_ he’d felt with SHIELD. (With—no, he doesn’t finish that thought.) And he thinks he misses that feeling.  
  
*  
  
He breaks into a for-sale apartment unit and spends the night on the floor. It’s not much, but he feels safe enough, with his back pressed to the wall underneath the sole window in the room.  
  
His sleep is restless. He rolls back and forth, tormented by a phantom touch that ghosts across his throat, his lips, his forehead. He feels an aching, agonizing hollowness in his chest that spreads to his throat and his eyes like a cancer, and—what’s _happening_ to him?  
  
He curls up on the ground, elbows hugging his sides, fingers snared in the fabric of his shirt right over his heart. He doesn’t understand. This is not disappointment, or fear, or annoyance, or anger. He’s in pain, but there’s nothing wrong with his body. He doesn’t understand how or why the memory of ( _no,_ his mind whispers, but _Steve,_ his voice whimpers) could cause him so much agony.  
  
He doesn’t _understand._  
  
*  
  
The next day, he finds the street where he shot Steve.  
  
He feels tense; it’s not safe here, but he has to remember. He has to _know._ Crouching on the sidewalk, he places the fingertips of his right hand on the ground, sliding them against the coarse concrete. He remembers blood, he remembers fleeing—  
  
 _“Mission report.”_  
  
 _For a few days, he’d half-hoped that the shot to Rogers’s lung might’ve killed him, but it didn’t. He almost avoided showing up at his extraction point altogether—but they found him, of course, and brought him back. He shudders and wets his dry, cracking lips. “Mission...failed, sir.”_  
  
 _The utter silence in the room and the weight of their stares make his skin crawl._  
  
 _“Why did you fail the mission?” the voice asks, softly. As softly as a murmur of steel drawn from its sheath._  
  
 _He sits still in the chair, not knowing how to respond. He doesn’t know why he failed. He doesn’t understand why he ran instead of pressing the trigger again—_  
  
 _Someone slaps him, hard. “Why did you fail the mission?”_  
  
 _He swallows, searching for words. “Captain Rogers—he knew me.”_  
  
 _The silence in the room reeks of his failure, and impending punishment._  
  
 _“You are imagining things, Winter Soldier.”_  
  
 _“No,” he says, and he’s not sure who’s more surprised—his masters, or him. “He_ knew _me. Why?”_  
  
 _There is a flurry of low voices, none of them sounding pleased. Finally, he makes out one sentence— “Wipe him.”_  
  
 _No, he thinks desperately, as they strap him into the electric machine. He has to remember the captain. He has to remember to find him. He has to find—_  
  
Someone bumps into him roughly as he gets to his feet.  
  
“Hey,” the man snarls. “Watch where you’re going!”  
  
“Sorry,” he mutters, trying to push past him.  
  
“Hold on, you clumsy son of a—”  
  
The man grabs his arm. His _left_ arm. The Winter Soldier’s head snaps up to hiss a warning, but the man is suddenly smiling, and— _oh no, no, nonono—_  
  
He tries to wrench his arm free, but something’s already jammed into his neck. Then the ground tilts and slams up into him, and...nothing.  
  
*  
  
“Wake up.”  
  
Cold water hits him in the face, and he splutters, opening his eyes. He’s in a dim room, with the only light being provided by a wan, dying fluorescent lamp on the ceiling. He’s sitting with his hands tied behind him and his feet tied to the legs of the chair he’s on. There are a handful of people in front of him. He recognizes none of their faces.  
  
There are no windows. It’s too dark for him to make out any doors. _No exits._  
  
“Where have you been?”  
  
The Winter Soldier blinks. His voice scrapes against his throat as he answers, “Why should I tell you?”  
  
Someone nods at the back. A familiar-looking muscular brute comes forward and punches him across the face. The Winter Soldier tastes blood and hears something in his nose break. His arms strain, but they’ve locked down his left arm somehow and he can’t break free. The man grabs the Winter Soldier’s hair and yanks his head up, and it’s all the Winter Soldier can do to bite down on the cry of pain that rises in his throat.  
  
“You work for us.” The speaker’s glasses glint in the darkness; his voice is cold. “Don’t forget that, Winter Soldier.”  
  
The Winter Soldier spits blood on the tile floor and bares his teeth in a savage smile. “I don’t work for anyone.”  
  
The man only smiles back with a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

 

 

 

_iii. the sound of forgetting_

 

He wakes up on the ground, with his cheek pressed to cold, rough concrete. There’s a briefcase pressed into his right hand that feels oddly heavy when he tries to lift it; he opens it and finds several different firearms and knives, along with some electronic devices.  
  
What is he doing here?  
  
He tries to remember. Only a voice comes to mind, clear and cold.  
  
 _Kill Captain Steven Rogers. You failed once. Don’t fail again._  
  
He doesn’t remember failing, but then, he doesn’t remember much of anything. Is this why his head feels like his brain’s been pulled out and twisted like putty and stuffed with cotton? Because he screwed up? He looks down at the weapons laid out in front of him, and a feeling of _wrongness_ prickles at the corners of his mind...  
  
 _Don’t. Don’t think about it. Just do as you’re told._  
  
He sits back on his heels and looks around. He’s on a roof overlooking SHIELD’s complex. That’s where the captain is going to be. They haven’t given him a sniper rifle, which he guesses means they want him to take Rogers out at close range. The thought makes him a little annoyed, because breaking into the complex will be far riskier than taking him out from a distance, but those are his orders. _Don’t think._  
  
He takes the knives from the briefcase and tucks them into his coat. He knows the layout of the building (he doesn’t know how he knows that, he just does, _don’t think_ ), and it doesn’t take long for him to sneak inside via a service entrance. He uses a jammer from the briefcase and points it at every security camera in his way.  
  
There isn’t much room to hide. He ducks into a storage closet for a moment to think. The captain could be in his room (seventeenth floor, east wing, facing north). Or in one of the conference rooms. He might be in the training room in the basement. Or maybe…  
  
The courtyard.  
  
 _The courtyard?_ he asks himself vaguely. _Why there?_  
  
He doesn’t have an answer. But...it seems _right_ , somehow. Or at least a good guess.  
  
The courtyard, then.  
  
It turns out he was right.  
  
Captain Rogers is leaning against one of the stone pillars on the outskirts of the courtyard, staring off into the distance. The Winter Soldier sneaks closer, knife held out in his hand. One stab to the neck—  
  
He swings the knife—  
  
Rogers suddenly stiffens and ducks. The knife tip clacks against the stone pillar before an elbow rams into the Winter Soldier’s gut. He staggers back, choking.  
  
 _Don’t fail...don’t fail..._  
  
Rogers grabs his right wrist and squeezes hard, forcing him to drop the knife with a grunt. But when he sees Rogers’s face, the expression there isn’t of fear; it’s of shock.  
  
“What are you doing?” Rogers demands. “What are you—it’s _me,_ don’t you—?”  
  
He drives metal left fist into Rogers’s stomach and shoves him back. He snatches the knife from the ground. Finish the mission, _finish the mission—_  
  
“Wait,” Rogers gasps out. “What—what _happened_ to you? Say something, please, _tell me_ —”  
  
The Winter Soldier stops dead, his knife still in hand. The world is suddenly tilting dangerously beneath him. _What happened to you? What happened? What happened—_  
  
“I don’t—know you,” he grinds out, voice rasping against his throat. But he feels dizzy...and his head hurts...  
  
Rogers’s eyes widen in shock. “But—”  
  
Then a shot rings out, he’s suddenly shoved to one side as pain blazes through his right shoulder, Rogers is shouting—and the world turns black.  
  
*  
  
“...have to _shoot_ him? You almost _killed_ him.”  
  
“For goodness’s sake, there was a _knife_ in his hand, Steve. He was trying to kill you. _Again._ ”  
  
“You don’t understand. He didn’t—he didn’t know who I was. When I talked to him, he looked completely confused.”  
  
“So...what, you think he has amnesia? For the second time?” The speaker sounds skeptical.  
  
“Well, what if...someone’s been _forcing_ him to forget?”  
  
“You sound like you really want to believe that’s true.” A pause. Then, a frustrated sigh. “Steve...Bucky’s _dead._ We _buried_ him. You have to move on—”  
  
“I _don’t_ think he’s Bucky—  
  
“That’s a lie.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Fine. Okay, Sharon, you’re right. I’m—I’m going to dig up the coffin.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“It’s the only way I’ll know for sure, otherwise it’s going to continue to haunt me.”  
  
The voices fade to a murmur, then a buzz, then silence.  
  
*  
  
When he wakes up, he’s in a room so white it looks like it’s been bleached sterile. A hospital room. There’s someone sitting next to him, a man with broad shoulders and blond hair. When the man sees he’s awake, he smiles, but his blue eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot and he looks like he’s just been crying.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
He stares. There’s a name that whispers at the edge of his memory, and if he could just reach...just _remember_ …  
  
 _Kill Captain Steven Rogers…_  
  
“Do you remember me?” Steven Rogers asks carefully. (Steven? Or was it Steve?)  
  
 _Don’t think. Don’t fail again…_  
  
He tries to lunge forward, but his hands don’t move. He looks down, only now realizing that his arms are strapped down.  
  
“Um. I’m really sorry about this,” Steve says with a downcast expression, gesturing at the restraints. “Sharon and Nick insisted.”  
  
He can’t tear his eyes away from his bound wrists. Something gnaws at him, gnaws and gnaws until it wells up inside his lungs like a trapped scream that’s clawing at the insides of his throat, unable to escape. Scrambled impressions dart through his mind, memories too fragmented for him to grasp but he’s afraid, he’s _afraid_ and he _can’t breathe_ —  
  
“Whoa, hey—” Steve scrambles to release the restraints, anxiety creasing his face. “Are you okay? You look—”  
  
His hands are free now—  
  
 _Kill Captain Steven Rogers_ —  
  
His fingers close around Steve’s throat as he breathes hard, oxygen burning his throat on the way down. His shoulder blazes with pain. Steve looks at him with a wide-eyed expression of fear and...something else.  
  
“Is this—really what you want to do?” Steve wheezes.  
  
He only stares back blankly. _Don’t think...don’t think…_  
  
“Please,” Steve whispers hoarsely. “ _Remember_...I know...this isn’t...what you want…”  
  
 _Don’t think._  
  
 _Don’t think._  
  
 _Don’t…_  
  
 _I...don’t…_  
  
 _I don’t...want…_  
  
He lets go. Steve falls back with a gasp, rubbing his throat. He looks down at his hands—one flesh, one metal—and the urge to scream bubbles up inside his chest again.  
  
Steve places a hand on his shoulder. He flinches back.  
  
“Don’t,” he rasps. “I’m...supposed to kill you.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Steve whispers. He reaches out with a hand and places it against the Winter Soldier’s face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. His fingers are shockingly warm but...familiar _,_ somehow. “It’s going to be okay.”  
  
He exhales slowly, watching Steve’s eyes flicker with emotion. And suddenly—suddenly guilt coils around his lungs so tightly he can’t breathe. He grabs the collar of Steve’s shirt and pulls him closer, gingerly touching the bruises beginning to form on his neck, desperately wishing he could take them away.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers brokenly, filled with emotions he can’t name and doesn’t understand. “I’m sorry…”  
  
“It’s okay,” Steve repeats, his eyes too bright.  
  
*  
  
“...I’m telling you, _no._ ”  
  
“And _I’m_ telling you, he tried to kill you _again._ How many times is it going to take before you regain your senses?”  
  
“It’s some kind of—brainwashing, or something. It has to be. Besides, he completely lost it when he realized he was tied to the gurney. It looked like he was about to have a heart attack.”  
  
“Why would he be afraid of being tied up?”  
  
“Maybe...maybe it’s some kind of latent memory? Something suppressed, traumatic…hell, just look at the picture you showed me earlier. The nasal fracture, the damage to his vocal cords—Sharon, they had to’ve _tortured_ him.”  
  
“I know it’s bad, I know maybe he didn’t intend to do it—but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s the Winter Soldier and a danger to you, Steve.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter. He needs help, and it’s—it’s _him_ , Sharon. You saw the coffin. It _has_ to be.”  
  
“He _used_ to be. But he’s not the same man now. Whatever’s been done to him—it’s changed him. Maybe permanently. Look—I don’t know how to say this nicely. The Bucky you knew? He’s dead. He’s dead, and he’s not going to ever come back.”  
  
“Maybe. Maybe not.”  
  
ldquo;Steve. _Steve._ The MRIs that you asked the doctors to do? In addition to the impaired memory, they show evidence of damage that suggests decreased empathy and a breakdown in emotional processing. It’s...essentially, he’s more robot than human, now.”  
  
“No.” The voice is firm. “That can’t be true.”  
  
“The scans don’t lie.”  
  
“I’ve _seen_ it, Sharon. He—he _does_ feel things. Maybe not like he used to, not the way you or I do. But he’s not heartless. He’s still capable of _caring._ ”  
  
“Or maybe you’re just seeing what you _want_ to see, Steve.”  
  
There is a long silence.  
  
“I’m sorry. That was a low blow.”  
  
“Yeah.” The voice is hoarse. “Yeah, that was.”  
  
“I don’t...I just don’t want you to get hurt, if it turns out there’s nothing left of Bucky in him.”  
  
“What, do you expect me to just walk away?” The voice rises, shaking at the edges. “I _love_ him, Sharon. I can’t give up.”  
  
A long sigh. “I don’t want to argue with you anymore, but we have to make sure he’s not going to try to kill you every time he wakes up, at least.”  
  
The voices move away and become indistinct.  
  
*  
  
His first thought when he wakes up is: he should be dead.  
  
He failed his mission. He’d hesitated, and they’d shot him. But for some reason, Steve Rogers saved his life, and all he ended up with was an injured shoulder. He should be dead. But he’s not. He doesn’t know why. And that bothers him.  
  
They give him clothes and, after he’s dressed, clap handcuffs over his wrists. Steve’s there, and his mouth tightens as they do so, though the Winter Soldier isn’t sure why. Dread churns restlessly in the pit of his stomach as he’s led through the halls. If he’s not dead yet, then that only leaves a few options. Best case scenario: they’ll try to execute him right away. Worst case scenario: imprisonment, interrogation, possibly torture...and _then_ execution. Maybe he could manage to escape, but...  
  
 _You failed once. Don’t fail again._  
  
He flinches at the memory of those words, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. He failed his mission. He is a failure. Either way, he will be punished.  
  
Steve stops and opens the door to what oddly looks like a conference room, where a woman is seated at the table. Her face is familiar, but he can’t place her name.  
  
She looks up when he sits down. Her expression is guarded.  
  
“Steve believes you aren’t acting of your own free will,” she begins, without preamble. He recognizes her voice...was her name Sharon? “So let me ask you. Why have you tried twice to kill Steve?”  
  
So. Interrogation it is.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Steve says, gazing calmly at him. “We’re not going to hurt you.”  
  
He stares back, uncomprehending.  
  
“Answer the question,” Sharon says sharply.  
  
“It’s...my mission,” he replies.  
  
“Who ordered you to do it?”  
  
“I don’t...know.” That answer is honest, at least.  
  
“Are you going to finish your mission?”  
  
“I…” He clenches and unclenches his fingers, staring at the table. “I...don’t know.”  
  
“Why not?” Sharon presses.  
  
 _Don’t think,_ a voice is screaming in his head, _don’t think, don’t think don’t think don’t think_ —  
  
“I don’t _know_ ,” he snaps.  
  
There’s a feeling of hesitation in the air.  
  
“What happens if you don’t finish your mission?”  
  
“I—” He doesn’t know how to breathe all of a sudden. Vague, murky impressions flit through his mind, and he shakes his head. “I can’t fail.”  
  
"Can’t?” Sharon repeats, eyebrow raised. “You can’t fail? But you just said you didn’t know if you would finish your mission.”  
  
The Winter Soldier hates these questions. He can’t make sense of the turbulence inside his head, fragments, pieces, contradictions, he doesn’t understand, _don’t think_ , not thinking is easier—  
  
“I need to know if you’re going to be a danger to Steve, or the rest of us,” Sharon says, her voice like steel.  
  
“I don’t want—” he blurts out, and then stops, biting down painfully on his lower lip. He is not supposed to have wants. _He is not supposed to have wants._ He is supposed to finish his mission, that’s all.  
  
But—he doesn’t— _want_ —to—hurt—  
  
“I think that’s enough, Sharon,” Steve says quietly. He turns back to the Winter Soldier, with a curious mix of sadness and sympathy in his eyes. “You don’t have to finish your mission if you don’t want to. You don’t have to go back to them.”  
  
He fists the fabric of his shirt. “They’ll find me,” he grits out, “they’ll—”  
  
“No,” Steve says, and his voice is soft but hard at the same time. “They won’t. I promise.”  
  
He breathes in, stares down at his hands, and says nothing. He knows he can’t escape from them, but Steve sounds so _confident_...  
  
“Do you know who you are?” Sharon suddenly asks.  
  
“Codename Winter Soldier.”  
  
“And...anything besides that?”  
  
He frowns at her. What was that supposed to mean? “I’m codename Winter Soldier,” he repeats.  
  
Steve makes a choked sound. He glances over at Steve, his frown deepening.  
  
Sharon takes a deep breath. “Yesterday, we dug up a coffin and—and it turned out to be empty.”  
  
He doesn’t know if that’s supposed to mean something to him.  
  
“So?”  
  
“Hydra specializes in a lot of unethical experiments.” Her voice is starting to become unsteady. “We think...there’s a possibility that they revived you from death.”  
  
Now he stares at her.  
  
“I know it sounds crazy,” Steve suddenly adds. He’s looking straight at the Winter Soldier, and there’s such a mixture of heartbreak and happiness there that the Winter Soldier actually feels a twinge in his chest. “But you fell into a frozen river. There’s a chance, the smallest chance, that you weren’t actually dead when you were pulled out.”  
  
“What...are you talking about?” he rasps.  
  
Sharon folds her hands. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” she says softly. “Everyone called you Bucky. Someone—probably Hydra—stole your body after you died, wiped your memory, and turned you into the assassin codenamed Winter Soldier.”  
  
The Winter Soldier looks between them. His throat feels dry; his head is pounding.  
  
“Not possible,” he manages to say. “This...is a trick, right?”  
  
Sharon looks a bit stunned, but Steve only slides a worn photograph across the table. The Winter Soldier catches it. The photograph shows Steve standing next to a grinning man with a boyish face and ruffled brown hair.  
  
“Who is this?”  
  
“Bucky,” Steve says, his voice thick, trembling. “It’s you, Bucky.”  
  
“No,” and he’s not sure why it feels like a cold fist is clenched in the center of his chest, why a wave of dizziness is washing over him and he has to put his hands on the table to steady himself. “I’m not—I’m _not_. I’m not a _person._ I’m not him.”  
  
Silence settles over the table like an oppressive weight. When he looks up, he sees a shadow of horror in Sharon’s expression, and Steve’s buried his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling.  
  
“What?” he says, bewildered. “Why are you—stop—stop _crying_ …”  
  
Steve’s shoulders slump further. The Winter Soldier can only stare at him, the fingers of his metal hand scraping against the wood of the table as they curl into a fist. He doesn’t like this. Why does it hurt to see Steve so upset?  
  
“Bucky—ah...codename Winter Soldier?”  
  
His head snaps around to face Sharon. She is watching him with a carefully neutral expression.  
  
“We...understand this is a lot to take in. But as long as you’re with us, you’ll be safe from Hydra—they won’t be able to hurt you anymore.”  
  
Something squeezes his right hand, and he instinctively recoils. It’s Steve, looking at him with damp eyes. “We won’t let Hydra get away with this, Bucky. I swear.”  
  
The Winter Soldier looks down at the table. This is...it can’t be right. He is not— _Bucky,_ he doesn’t have a name, he is a weapon—a weapon—a—  
  
“I’m not going to leave you, not ever again,” Steve insists.  
  
But he isn’t—  
  
But—  
  
He looks into Steve’s fervent, hopeful gaze, and the words turn to ash in his mouth.  
  
*  
  
When he is finally left alone again in his hospital room, he tries to make sense of the facts.  
  
He is codename Winter Soldier. He is a weapon, not a person.  
  
He failed his mission. He failed because...because…he doesn’t want to hurt Steve. He doesn’t want to hurt Steve because...he...he doesn’t know.  
  
Steve and Sharon Carter believe he is...a man named James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes.  
  
None of this makes any sense.  
  
The door clicks open, and he jumps to his feet before he sees that the person entering the room is Steve.  
  
“Hey, Bucky,” Steve says.  
  
The Winter Soldier twitches. That is not his name, _that is not his name_ , but Steve is looking at him with a radiant smile and light in his eyes and...and he…  
  
“I just, um…” Steve’s smile is so wide it looks like it must be hurting his face, but he can’t seem to stop. “Sorry, it’s just...after all this time...knowing you’re alive again...I think I’m still in shock.”  
  
The Winter Soldier flails for something concrete to grab a hold of. He settles for, “But I tried to kill you.”  
  
“It wasn’t _you,_ ” Steve insists. “It wasn’t your fault, Bucky.”  
  
“ _Stop_ —” He winces, biting down on his tongue. “Please don’t...call me that.”  
  
Because he doesn’t have a name, weapons don’t have names, he can’t be that person because he is not a person...  
  
Steve’s smile fades, replaced by a look of concern, and the Winter Soldier suddenly wishes he hasn’t said anything.  
  
“Okay,” Steve finally says. “We’ll take it slow.”  
  
Silence settles over them like a cloud. Steve isn’t saying anything, but he’s making no move to leave, either, and the Winter Soldier can’t do anything except watch him uncertainly.  
  
“We’ve been...trying to figure out where Hydra’s base is,” Steve tells him, at last. “We’ve suspected for a while that they’ve been planning something big, ever since we realized they’d been testing something on their own soldiers. Then a Hydra agent who defected told us they were planning a bioterrorist attack on a massive scale with some brain-altering chemical, to induce suggestibility.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Apparently Arnim Zola is masterminding the whole thing. Um...I guess you don’t remember, but we were trying to capture him four years ago. We stopped him from killing a bunch of people, but he escaped, and we hadn’t heard anything about him since. Now he’s back.” He pauses. “I can’t help thinking that all of this is revenge. Against me, for ruining his plans four years ago. I mean, I guess I should be grateful to him for bringing you back to life, but...what he _did_ to you…” He lets out a shuddering breath. “He’s not going to escape. Not this time.”  
  
He doesn’t know why Steve is telling him this.  
  
“I, uh...I…” Steve clasps his hands together and looks down. “I wanted to apologize. To you.”  
  
The Winter Soldier blinks. “Why?”  
  
“Everything they did to you…” Steve clears his throat and continues staring at the white linoleum tile floor. “It’s all my fault,” he says, in a muffled voice. “I couldn’t reach far enough the first time, I should’ve saved you, but I _couldn’t_ , and then—and then you turned up at SHIELD over a month ago, d’you remember?”  
  
He frowns, puzzled. “I...did?”  
  
“Yeah. I don’t know why you went AWOL from Hydra, but you didn’t remember anything back then. I knew you looked exactly like Bucky, but I didn’t think you were really—I mean, we _buried_ you. I didn’t think you’d actually be able to come back.” He looks up. “We hid your past from you. The fact that you were an assassin...that you’d already shot and tried to kill me once.”  
  
The Winter Soldier’s fingers clench tightly into fists. This information shouldn’t surprise him— _Kill Captain Steven Rogers; you already failed once_ —but that doesn’t make it easier to hear.  
  
“You were upset when you found out. I wasn’t trying to use you—” Steve’s eyes are bright with a long-suffering apology, “—I—I really _was_ trying to give you a second chance. And—okay, maybe I _did_ trust you because I wanted to think you were Bucky, I mean, I thought you were dead, but you looked exactly alike and I wanted so badly to _believe_. Maybe I was being selfish, but I didn’t intend for everything to turn out the way it did...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
  
“That’s...nice of you,” the Winter Soldier says vaguely, “but I don’t remember what you’re talking about.”  
  
Steve shakes his head. “You don’t have to. I just...I had to let you know,” he mumbles, sniffling. “It’s my fault you had to go through all this, and that’s why I have to help.”  
  
The Winter Soldier doesn’t understand Steve’s sorrow, doesn’t understand who Steve believes him to be, but as he looks at Steve standing there, an overwhelming sense of failure crushes him like a weight.  
  
*  
  
His shoulder is healing fine, but SHIELD still insists that he spend his nights in the infirmary. He thinks it’s so they can keep an eye on him without putting him in a cell. He isn’t happy about it because of the large window against the wall, which may as well be a brightly-colored bull’s eye on his back for a sniper bullet, but Steve assures him that the window is heavily reinforced, bullet- and shatter-proof. He’s still leery of it, though, and keeps it covered with the blinds whenever he can.  
  
Steve brings him old photographs and a small mirror. He’s forced to admit to himself that his face looks identical to the ones in Steve’s pictures, which would mean…  
  
Which has to mean...  
  
At night, he lies back in the bed and stares into space. _My name is James Buchanan Barnes,_ he tries to say, but when he speaks the words, they sound so painfully wrong. His heart rate triples, and he finds himself curled up into a ball, hands covering his head, barely able to breathe.  
  
“I’m not a person,” he gasps, and some air manages to squeeze into his lungs. “I don’t have a name. I’m not human. I don’t have a name…”  
  
The words soothe him, and he keeps repeating them until his heartbeat has gone back to normal and he can unfurl himself on the bed. The thought of trying again fills him with panic. Burning shame and cold fear twist in his stomach, and he feels like a failure. He is broken. Malfunctioning.  
  
When Steve visits his room this morning, he’s puzzling over the cup of coffee on his breakfast tray. Instead of being dark, almost black, it’s a creamy caramel-brown color, and it tastes oddly sweet.  
  
“What happened to the black coffee?” the Winter Soldier asks.  
  
Steve blinks. “I thought—you always liked cappuccinos…”  
  
“Oh,” is all the Winter Soldier can say, and he stares down at his coffee. He feels like he’s just failed some kind of test.  
  
“I can get you a new cup of coffee,” Steve says hurriedly.  
  
“No—” His hand curls more tightly around his steaming mug. “It’s okay.” It’s just coffee. He can learn to like cappuccinos. He can do this.  
  
“Hey, no.” Steve gently takes the cup from him. “If you like black coffee, then you should have it. You don’t have to...I shouldn’t project things onto you. I’m sorry.”  
  
Steve hurries off. The Winter Soldier still isn’t entirely sure what he’s apologizing for.  
  
“Here,” Steve says with a smile as he returns, putting the new cup in front of the Winter Soldier. Steam curls off the obsidian-brown surface.  
  
The Winter Soldier looks down at it, his stomach turning.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, suddenly anxious.  
  
He searches for words. “You—you said this wasn’t the right coffee,” he blurts out. “Why would you give me the wrong one?”  
  
Steve’s brows furrow deeply. What did he say? What did he say that was wrong?  
  
“No, that’s—it’s not about who you _were_. It’s about who you are now. I don’t want to tell you how you should be.”  
  
His eyes drop to the fading, green-edged finger-shaped bruises on Steve’s neck. Things are crawling in the back of his throat and scraping against the corners of his eyes and he doesn’t understand _why._  
  
“But I’m not—I don’t even know who he is _,_ ” the Winter Soldier says helplessly, frustratedly. “If you want me to be him—”  
  
Steve’s eyes widen with faint horror and how, _how_ does he keep saying the wrong thing? “I don’t—no. I don’t _want_ you to be anyone other than who you are.”  
  
“I don’t—I don’t—I’m _nothing!_ ” he snarls, confused anger flaring up hot and painful in his veins. “I’m supposed to be a weapon! But I failed my mission and I don’t—I don’t even know why, I don’t know why it hurts to look at way I bruised your neck, I almost killed you and you’re not even _angry_ —you say I’m supposed to be Bucky Barnes but I’m not—him, I don’t know if I _can_ be him, I’m _trying_ to be but you always get this—this _look_ on your face, and _I don’t understand why I keep getting it wrong!_ ”  
  
Steve’s eyes are round with shock.  
  
“I don’t want you to do things just because you think I _want_ them,” Steve says, and there’s a pleading note in his voice. “You’re not my—subordinate or slave or anything. You’re my _friend._ ”  
  
 _Friend._ No, more than a friend—he remembers Steve saying, _I love him._ But the Winter Soldier doesn’t have _friends,_ because he is not a person. He understands what love is in the abstract sense, but he can’t—love doesn’t apply to him. _He is not a person._  
  
“You didn’t want to hurt me because you’re a good person,” Steve says softly. “You’ve always been.”  
  
“I’m not _a person,_ ” he snaps.  
  
Steve’s eyes glisten, and he—he’s gotten it wrong, _again_ —  
  
The fingernails on his right hand dig into his palm with crescents of pain and he bites down on his tongue, hard enough to draw coppery-tasting blood.  
  
“What are you— _hey!_ ” Steve’s hands cup his face, and he looks up into alarmed blue eyes. “Stop. Don’t hurt yourself. _Please._ ”  
  
Something scalding and sharp-edged writhes in his gut. “I don’t understand,” he says hoarsely. “I keep hurting you. I don’t know why. What am I doing wrong? I don’t—understand.”  
  
Steve presses his eyes briefly shut and takes in a slow, shuddering breath.  
  
“You’re not wrong. You’re never wrong. _I’m_ the one who’s wrong, okay?”  
  
“But—”  
  
“I’m so sorry. Sharon said I might be pushing you too hard, and she’s right. I’m just making a huge mess of things. I’m trying not to compare you with—with how you were before, I shouldn’t, I _shouldn’t_ —” He breaks off, turning his head away. “I’m sorry for being so selfish. I’m trying so hard not to be. You’re _here_ now, and that’s all that matters.”  
  
Steve tries to smile, but his expression looks sad.  
  
“I just want to help you, but most of the time I don’t know how. But if you trust me...I promise we’ll make it through together. Okay?”  
  
He looks up into those eyes bright with remorse and tentative hope.  
  
“Okay,” he whispers.  
  
*  
  
A few days later, a tall, dark-skinned man with an eyepatch visits him.  
  
“How’s the shoulder?” the man asks.  
  
The Winter Soldier rolls it carefully. “Functional.”  
  
“Will you have any problems shooting Hydra soldiers?’  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
The man gives him a somewhat disconcerting smile. “Good.” He beckons to someone behind him, and a nurse brings out a kevlar vest and other clothes. “You’ll need this.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“You will join Captain Rogers and a SHIELD strike force in dismantling Hydra and taking down Zola—their ringleader. Any other questions?”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
Hydra’s base turns out to be an innocuous-looking research building. Sharon Carter walks up to the reception desk with a piece of paper in her hand. “We have a warrant to search this building for the presence of the terrorist group known as Hydra.”  
  
The receptionist looks at her. Her hand moves—  
  
Suddenly black-clothed soldiers come pouring out of a hallway, and gunfire fills the air. He rolls behind a corner, drawing two guns from their holsters.  
  
“Buck—Soldier!” Steve grabs his arm. “Leave them. We need to find Zola.”  
  
He follows as Steve barrels straight through with a circular shield held in front of him, heading for the stairwell. A few Hydra soldiers try to tail them. The Winter Soldier takes them out quickly.  
  
They descend one floor—and open the door to stumble into another squad of guards. Most of them go down easily. But in the middle of the gunshots and blood spraying everywhere, the Winter Soldier sees a bald-headed, bespectacled man trying to escape at the end of the hall. He barrels through the rest of the Hydra members and _jumps_ , landing on the man and pinning him to the floor.  
  
“See, that’s not going to work,” he says, pressing his gun to the man’s forehead.  
  
The man’s lip curls. “I see you failed your mission. Again.”  
  
The Winter Soldier feels someone shove past him and realizes it’s Steve, who’s pressing the edge of his shield to the man’s throat. “Zola,” Steve spits through clenched teeth. “You—you _brought Bucky back from the dead without his memories just to get to me?!_ ”  
  
Zola sighs. “Oh, if only that had been the case.”  
  
Time stops.  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” the Winter Soldier snaps.  
  
“Believe me, I would have liked nothing more than to be able to resurrect James Barnes, but unfortunately we were unable to.” Zola looks at him with an eerie sort of pride. “But we _were_ able to implant his sense-memories into a different body.”  
  
“You’re lying,” Steve says, eyes narrowed. “This _is_ Bucky—”  
  
“Why, because he looks the same?” Zola sneers. “Have you ever heard of plastic surgery, Captain?”  
  
Steve freezes. He looks back at the Winter Soldier, his eyes wide with doubt.  
  
“That’s right. All we needed to do was find someone with the correct height, hair and eye color. We had to, ahem, _borrow_ Barnes’s body to make the likenesses convincing enough. We even tried to modify his voice to sound like Barnes’, but unfortunately we did not quite succeed.” Zola chuckles, a sickening sound. “The idea was to make you believe he really _was_ Barnes, before he was to kill you.”  
  
The Winter Soldier meets Steve’s gaze. And the expression of shock and pain he sees there feels like a stab to his gut.  
  
“You’ve said enough,” he tells Zola coldly, but before he can pull the trigger, Steve’s hand shoots to his wrist.  
  
“No, don’t.” Steve’s voice is thick, as though each word is a struggle. “We...we need him alive.”  
  
He turns the gun in his hand and hits Zola sharply on the side of the head instead. He lifts the doctor’s unconscious body, but Steve is already on his feet and walking away, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the ground.  
  
“Steve,” he tries helplessly, not knowing what he wants to say.  
  
But Steve is already gone.

 

 

 

_iv. tell me who i am_

 

The Winter Soldier brings Zola back to the SHIELD base, where they shut him into a cell. And when Sharon comes to the Winter Soldier with a frown, asking what happened and why Steve won’t talk to anyone, he tells the story hesitantly, his voice ragged and jerky.  
  
When he finishes, Sharon lapses into a thoughtful silence. He winds and unwinds his flesh and metal fingers together, waiting for her to speak.  
  
“So...who does that make you, then?” she finally asks.  
  
He stares at the table. “I...I don’t know.” And he’s tired, so tired of answering questions with these three words. He started out as no one, and now he’s _still_ no one. Just a weapon with a title, no name, no past, and no soul.  
  
“Well...now that you’re no longer under Hydra’s control, what are you doing to do?”  
  
He closes his eyes. “I don’t know,” he repeats, his voice heavy.  
  
He feels Sharon’s warm hand close over his. It’s the first time he hears sympathy in her voice for him.  
  
“Just...take it slow,” is all she says.  
  
*  
  
Without Zola, Hydra rapidly collapses, and it’s up to SHIELD to clean up what’s left. They don’t ask the Winter Soldier to come along, and he’s glad. Right now, he doesn’t want to think about Zola or anything connected to Hydra.  
  
He doesn’t want to think about anything at all, really.  
  
No one tells him, but he hears murmurs that they found Bucky Barnes’s body, frozen in a stasis tube, and they will lay him to rest for the final time. He doesn’t want to go anywhere near the body—doesn’t want to look at the man whose face he’s stolen—but then he realizes Steve will be there.  
  
He watches the gathering from a distance, watches as they lower a coffin down into the earth. The heartache and anguish in Steve’s red, puffy eyes feel like bullets ripping holes through him over and over and over again.  
  
He’s not Bucky Barnes.  
  
He’ll never be Bucky Barnes.  
  
He leaves before anyone catches sight of him, and he spends the rest of the day alone in the room SHIELD’s given him, haunted by Steve’s face.  
  
*  
  
“I thought you might want to know,” Sharon says a few days later, after returning to base, “we found all of Zola’s files, including his files on you.”  
  
She puts a flash drive on the table in front of him. He stares at it, torn between wanting and not wanting to know.  
  
“You don’t have to read it,” Sharon adds. “If you do, though, just make sure you don’t read it before you go to bed.”  
  
He ignores her advice, but sorely regrets it later.  
  
They had cut him open—cut open his face to reconstruct it in the likeness of James Barnes, shaved some bones and added to others, slashed wounds to open him up and then carelessly stitched him back together. There are photographs, so many photographs, so detailed he accidentally breaks the edge of the table off with his left hand in an effort to keep himself from destroying the computer monitor.  
  
 _Project Tabula Rasa has succeeded,_ Zola wrote. _The subject awakened with no memory of his former life or identity. Prolonged electrical stimulation and exposure to familiar stimuli over a period of several weeks yielded no apparent recall. We will be monitoring him closely to make sure he remains stable._  
  
 _The memory implantation experiment was a success. Upon testing, the subject shows the superior combat skills and reflexes that Barnes formerly possessed. Unfortunately, it appears that the implantation worked rather_ too _well: the subject also remembers events from the life of James Barnes, and he appears to be considerably disoriented and confused. Further study is needed to determine whether it is possible to remove those memories selectively. In the meantime, periodic electroshock therapy should suffice to keep him obedient._  
  
 _The subject has been displaying erratic behavior as of late. Whether this is due to James Barnes’s memories or, perhaps, the subject’s original memories resurfacing is unknown. Aggressive conditioning is recommended to keep him fully operational...._  
  
He reads those paragraphs over and over until the type starts to blur on the monitor in front of his eyes. Horror worms through his throat, stifling his breath. “No,” he whispers. No. No. _No._ He is not—he was never supposed to be James Barnes. He’s not the man Steve wants and so he _can’t_ be Barnes, he can’t be, he _can’t be._  
  
When he finally finishes reading, he turns the computer off and collapses on his bed. Sleep doesn’t come to him for a long, long time.  
  
*  
  
 _Pain._  
  
 _Pain, everywhere._  
  
 _A face materializes in front of him, stern and cold._  
  
 _“You belong to us. Remember that, Winter Soldier.”—_  
  
 _—Blood, there’s blood everywhere, and a series of bloody corpses trail down the hall. His breathing sounds awfully harsh in the deathly stillness. His hands are stained, his clothes are stained, there’s something warm dripping down the face and he...for a second, he thinks...he doesn’t...want—_  
  
 _—Laughter. “Bucky, stop.”_  
  
 _“Not gonna happen, Steve.” He hits Steve with a pillow. “That’s what you get for not telling me you got that art scholarship. And this—” He presses his lips to Steve’s forehead. “—is what you get for_ getting _that scholarship.”_  
  
 _Steve is blushing furiously. “You’re a jerk.”_  
  
 _He only laughs in response.—_  
  
 _—He’s strangling someone, feeling the man thrash beneath him as he tries desperately to claw for air. Finally the man gives one last twitch, and falls still. He looks down at the bulging eyes and blue-tinged face, and he has a strange feeling in his chest and a metallic taste in the back of his mouth—_  
  
 _—There’s a head resting against his shoulder, and fingers entwined with his. “Told you I’d always be there for you, Steve,” he mumbles drowsily, reaching over to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes.—_  
  
 _—”Why didn’t you follow your mission parameters?”_  
  
 _“I’m sorry,” is all he can say, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the ground. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”_  
  
 _“No. It won’t.”—_  
  
 _—He sees Steve’s hand, but it’s too far—he’s falling, and for the first time he feels afraid, he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want—_  
  
 _—Blue eyes stare into his. “You’re okay,” Steve says softly, warm hands holding his face. “You’re_ okay. _”_  
  
 _And he doesn’t know why, but he feels safe._  
  
*  
  
“I remember,” he tells Sharon, his voice coarse and fractured.  
  
She’s the only person he can find, and he can’t keep it to himself anymore. Her eyes widen a little at his words. “What do you remember?” she asks, carefully.  
  
“Killing,” he says, numbly. “Pain. But...I remember dying, too. And I remember...being Bucky Barnes.”  
  
He looks at her, silently begs her to speak, but for once, Sharon doesn’t seem to have anything to say.  
  
“Why?” he asks, desperation making his voice rise. “Why am I remembering all this? I didn’t—I never wanted—and I’m not—I’m not supposed to be _him_. I don’t want to remember, I don’t...I just want…”  
  
He doesn’t know what he wants.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says gently, and there’s sorrow in the slant of her brow. “I wish I knew what to tell you. I’m sorry.”  
  
*  
  
It’s clear that Steve is avoiding him and purposely going out of his way to make himself a ghost. He _could_ find him—he is—he _was_ the Winter Soldier, and he was good at that kind of thing—but out of respect for Steve’s wishes, he decides to leave him alone.  
  
His sleep is now filled with nightmares, and he usually thrashes awake, covered in cold sweat and in pain all over from phantom wounds in both body and mind. He wishes he could go back to when he didn’t feel anything, because these emotions, this anguish, it’s all too much for him.  
  
Sometimes he pauses to look down at the scars, everywhere Hydra had opened him up so they could reconstruct him in the image of Bucky Barnes. They’d been very careful to hide the evidence around his face, but hadn’t bothered as much with the rest of him. He feels...he’s not sure what he feels, exactly. Anger, maybe, slow-burning in his throat. Horror, perhaps, thick and slimy and nauseating. But mostly he feels numb. It’s not like he can turn back the clock and reclaim what was his, and he doesn’t even know what he used to look like. Maybe this should bother him more than it does. Maybe he’s just too messed up, been experimented on and wiped one too many times, to process anything anymore.  
  
Who is he? He thinks about that question a lot when he looks at his reflection in the mirror, at the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the haggard expression on his face. He doesn’t know who he was before Hydra got a hold of him and surgically altered his face and body and killed the brain cells that held his former memories. He doesn’t want to be the Winter Soldier anymore, but he’s not James Buchanan Barnes. Except he _remembers_ being him...  
  
He just wishes his existence would make _sense._  
  
The days pass in a grayish blur. He is drifting, anchorless, and there’s always a voice in the back of his head that wonders if it would be easier to just end it all. Because he dreams, over and over again, of that memory of warmth, of a smile like the sun and lips whispering sweetly against his throat, and when he wakes up and remembers the way Steve had looked at him with such horror and pain, he wants to crawl into a dark, tiny hole and slowly wither away.  
  
Oddly, Sharon Carter is the person he sees most often. She’s the one who stops by to ask how he’s doing, for reasons he can’t fathom. He lies and says he’s fine, and something in her eyes tells him she knows he’s lying, but she only nods in response and says she’ll see him later.  
  
“How are you holding up?” she asks him one day.  
  
He has no idea how she found him. He’s been standing on the roof for the past hour, contemplating whether he should step off the edge.  
  
“Fine,” he lies, because there’s no way he could explain how he’s “holding up.” He doesn’t think he can even find the words to describe it.  
  
She looks at the edge of the roof, and then back at him.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“I...don’t know,” he answers, staring at the long way down to the ground.  
  
“Maybe you should step away from the edge.”  
  
“Maybe,” he vaguely agrees. He still doesn’t move.  
  
After a moment longer, Sharon says, “Zola wants to talk to you.”  
  
Her words are an electric shock to his spine. He jerks, and spins around to stare at her. He’s—he suddenly feels awake, _present_ , for the first time in days.  
  
“Wh...what?”  
  
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Sharon goes on, her eyes sliding past him. “But, well, he asked, and it’s your decision.”  
  
He doesn’t know what to think. He knows now what Zola did to him, and none of those memories are even remotely agreeable. But on the other hand...curiosity slowly pools in the back of his mind.  
  
“Where is he?” he asks.  
  
*  
  
They bring him to a small cell, and he stands in front of the iron bars without speaking. Zola raises his head slowly, calmly, smiling with that touch of pride that makes his stomach turn.  
  
“Winter Soldier,” Zola greets him.  
  
His fingers curl into fists. He can still feel the phantom sensations of Zola cutting off his left arm and attaching a metal one, just to see if he _could._ “What do you want?” he grinds out.  
  
Zola doesn’t answer, but he sees it in his eyes. The way Zola is looking at him, _studying_ him, as though he’s still nothing more than an experiment.  
  
“I’m not yours anymore,” he spits out.  
  
“No,” Zola sighs regretfully. “No, you are not.”  
  
“Your plan to get revenge on Steve Rogers failed.”  
  
Zola sighs again, though there’s something wistful in the curve of his mouth. “It _was_ a brilliant plan, though. To let Rogers die by the hand of the one person he loves most in the world, or at least let him believe so.” He utters a short laugh. “But perhaps it all turned out for the best, after all. To watch his hopes dashed right in front of him, as he realized Barnes _hadn’t_ returned from death after all, and to torment him with a stranger who wears Barnes’s face—”  
  
He doesn’t even realize he’s moved, he just suddenly finds himself with his face pressed against the cold metal, both hands clenched in the collar of Zola’s prison shirt on the other side of the bars.  
  
“You sick bastard,” he snarls. “He—he doesn’t deserve to suffer like this.”  
  
Zola only looks at him and laughs, actually _laughs._ The sound of it makes him want to throttle Zola, but he restrains himself, arms taut with the effort.  
  
“You deluded creature,” Zola says once he’s done, with a trace of something that’s almost pity. “You think you actually _care_ about Rogers? You’re only hanging on to lingering emotions from memories that don’t belong to you, following him like a stray dog follows the first person who shows it kindness. You’re incapable of feeling anything close to love—that part of your brain is nothing but lesions and dead gray matter.”  
  
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” the Winter Soldier replies coldly.  
  
Zola’s eyes dance with cruel mirth. “And surely you don’t think Rogers would ever care for someone—some _thing_ more weapon than human?”  
  
“I—I—” His grip loosens; he stumbles back. He wants to shout, to roar, but all he can do is whisper wretchedly, “I’m not...a _thing…_ ”  
  
“Then what _are_ you?”  
  
“Shut up…”  
  
“You don’t even know, do you?”  
  
“ _I said shut up!_ ”  
  
His left hand seizes Zola’s throat, and he thinks about how _easy_ it would be to snap his neck, how many times he’s done it before to others. Zola doesn’t even look afraid.  
  
“You’re becoming unstable, Winter Soldier.” Zola’s teeth flash. “We only cleared Barnes’s memories for your own benefit, you know. Life was so much simpler without someone else’s memories and feelings crowding your head, wasn’t it?”  
  
 _No,_ he wants to say, no, they never asked him before they wiped him every time, they never gave him a choice before they molded him into the Winter Soldier. But…he can’t pretend that he wants to remember. That he wants to wake up with the phantom feeling of warm, slick blood on his hands. That he wants to dream of the warmth of a body curled up against him (frail and bony, or strong and solid) and wake up to find himself alone. He can’t pretend he wants to feel, because all these emotions seem to bring him is pain.  
  
“It’s only a matter of time before you start to break down,” Zola murmurs. “Before it all becomes too much.”  
  
He doesn’t know what to think about that, but—he doesn’t want to die.  
  
“You’re…lying…you’re _lying_...”  
  
“We gave you life. We gave you purpose… _worth_.” Zola’s voice is soft. “We can take away your pain. Won’t you come back to us once more?”  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut.  
  
“No,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a whimper. “No, you’re lying to me, this is a trick…”  
  
“It isn’t a trick.”  
  
He swallows, forcing the words out. “You’re crazy if you think I’ll ever go back to—to being your lab rat, your _tool_ —“  
  
“It’s better than the confused, meaningless existence you face now, isn’t it?”

 

 

He shoves Zola back until the man falls to the ground. He turns his back to leave, but Zola says, “You surprise me, Winter Soldier.”  
  
“I’m not the Winter Soldier,” he answers roughly. “Not anymore.”  
  
“What else are you capable of being?”  
  
He slams the door shut behind him without a word.  
  
*  
  
“What did Zola want?” Sharon asks him when he steps out.  
  
He shakes his head, his jaw clenched tight. “Nothing. He just wanted to play mind games.”  
  
This doesn’t seem to surprise her. “He does have a way of getting under people’s skin.”  
  
He’s remembering Zola’s laughter, Zola’s sneers— _you deluded creature—_ and something white-hot and painful blazes to life in his chest. He turns and slams his fist into the wall, breathing heavily as his left hand cracks the stone.  
  
Sharon Carter mutters something behind him that sounds a lot like “ _Men._ ”  
  
The burning tightness in his chest is gone just as suddenly as it came, and now he blinks in confusion at the sight of his fist in the wall. He pulls back and looks at it blankly, trying to find an answer written there, even though there is none.  
  
“Did that make you feel better?” Sharon’s voice has a somewhat sardonic tone, but it doesn’t sound mocking.  
  
“I…” He slumps against the wall, suddenly feeling exhausted. “No.”  
  
She steps in front of him, forcing him to meet her gaze. There’s something sharp and probing in her eyes, but there’s also a glimmer of kindness.  
  
“Why…” He’s having a hard time finding words. “I’m—a murderer and a lab experiment. Why are you looking at me like that? You never liked me before.”  
  
Sharon grimaces a little. “Before, I didn’t know. I thought you were some ordinary mercenary or hitman, just waiting for the right opportunity to kill Steve. I didn’t realize you never had a choice, and no human being should have to go through what you went through.”  
  
He flinches. He wants to deny that he’s human, wants to so badly that the words chafe his tongue. Because even though he hates Zola and everything Zola did to him, the idea is still too painful for him to hear out loud. But...he’s no longer sure of anything. It’s all a confused tangle in his head, and he’d rather not think about it—about the question of who or what he is.  
  
He remembers what Zola said to him, and a jumble of words well up in his throat, trying to claw their way out all at once.  
  
“Do you think—” His voice sounds oddly broken and jagged, like bits of shattered glass, and he swallows. “Do you think I could... _be_ Bucky Barnes?”  
  
Sharon’s eyes widen with surprise and she inhales sharply. “How?”  
  
He shakes his head. “I don’t know, but Zola— _reprogrammed_ me, didn’t he? Couldn’t there be some way to—to undo everything and erase everything I remember from after I—after Bucky died? I have the memories...I already _look_ the same...”  
  
“No,” Sharon says bluntly.  
  
“Why...why not?” he asks, almost pleads.  
  
“Zola’s actions were experimental and highly unethical. It’s far too complicated and risky to mess around with someone’s brain like that. Given the number of times your mind’s been tampered with, you’re lucky you’re not a complete _vegetable._ ”  
  
“I’ll take the risk,” he returns, without hesitation.  
  
“You’re missing the _point_ , which is that even if we _could_ do what you’re saying, it would violate every human rights principle that ever existed. We’re not Hydra.” She looks at him. “This isn’t up for discussion. It’s just not possible.”  
  
Disappointment constricts his lungs with a vicelike grip, making it hard for him to breathe.  
  
“Why?” Sharon asks, in a quieter voice. “Why would you want to do that, considering everything you’ve been through?”  
  
He doesn’t know how to explain. He fumbles for words, and finally settles on, “I just think it would be easier. For...everyone.”  
  
“Everyone?” she prompts, softly. “Or just...one person?”  
  
He doesn’t answer that. His throat is taut, sealed shut, throbbing painfully.  
  
Sharon doesn’t press him. After a long moment of silence, she says, “Before you do anything, maybe you should ask him what _he_ thinks, first. You might be surprised at what he says.”  
  
Her hand squeezes his shoulder, briefly, and he stares after her as she leaves.  
  
*  
  
 _He resists._  
  
 _At first he rages, lashing out at them. But they keep taking things from him, piece by piece, until he’s nothing but exhaustion and desperation, clinging to the only thing he still remembers._  
  
 _Blond hair. Blue eyes. A wide, innocent smile. A hand stroking his hair, caressing his face._  
  
 _He doesn’t remember this man’s name, nor his own name, anymore. He doesn’t remember what words this man spoke to him. But he remembers the sound of his voice, low and comforting. It made him feel—feel—_  
  
 _The intercom crackles to life overhead. “Stop this meaningless resistance and surrender, Winter Soldier.”_  
  
 _“No,” he whispers, his voice ragged with anger and fear. “This is mine. It’s_ mine. You can’t take it away from me!”  
  
 _“You own nothing. You are nothing. And you_ will _remember your place.”_  
  
 _Agony surges through him, over and over and over until—_  
  
 _There is nothing._  
  
*  
  
It’s a few days later when he finally finds Steve.  
  
Steve is sitting by himself in a corner of the empty courtyard, underneath an overhanging ledge, with a drawing pad. He walks up slowly, the drizzling rain plastering his hair to his face, and though Steve doesn’t look up, he’s sure Steve knows it’s him.  
  
“We need to talk,” he says in his hoarse, ravaged voice.  
  
Steve’s shoulders sag. He puts his pad to the side and drops his face into his hand.  
  
“I’m sorry,” the man who used to be called the Winter Soldier goes on. “I—I wish I wasn’t wearing Bucky’s face like this. I didn’t ask for this to happen.”  
  
“No,” Steve says softly through his fingers. “It’s...it’s not your fault.”  
  
He looks down at Steve sitting there, looking so defeated and miserable, and he has to clench his hands to keep them still at his sides. He doesn’t know how he could explain, how he could even _begin_ to explain, that he has at least some of Bucky’s memories and sometimes almost _feels_ like Bucky Barnes, even if he’s just a broken, faded shadow of the real person. But he has to try.  
  
“I’m—” Some buried instinct makes him try to chuckle, but he doesn’t quite remember how, and it comes out as a choked-off, mangled sigh instead. He winces at the sound of it. “I don’t know who I am. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to figure it out. Thanks to Zola and Hydra and all the screwed-up things they did—I’m only a weapon. That’s all I’ll ever be.”  
  
Steve looks like he’s about to say something, but then he raises his head and actually looks at him, and his brow furrows in genuine concern. “You look terrible.”  
  
He tries to smile. He’s sure the attempt looks hollow. “Remembering a history of murder isn’t exactly pleasant.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve says quietly. Sincerely.  
  
He glances away. “I remember...other things, too. It seems that their memory implantation worked too well, and now I remember things that I shouldn’t be able to.”  
  
Steve breathes in sharply. “You... _what?_ ”  
  
“That’s right,” he says, bitterly. “It was bad enough that they had to go and make me _look_ like him. Now I’ve got a whole bunch of his memories in my head, too.”  
  
Steve is looking at him as though he’s not quite sure what to think.  
  
“But what do you care, right?” he continues, staring at the ground. “I mean...it’s not like I’m _him,_ even if I feel like I am. Or at least whatever’s left.”  
  
“That’s not—” Steve breaks off, and exhales slowly. “I _do_ care. Even if you didn’t have his memories—I’d care.”  
  
A small, frail light of hope flickers in his chest.  
  
“But—” Steve pauses, as though trying to decide what to say, and he finally blows out a frustrated sigh. “How do I say this? You’re not—what remains of Bucky, or whatever. You’re your own person. And you should take whatever time you need to figure yourself out.”  
  
He thinks Steve is trying to be kind to him, but the words sting like cold rejection. His shoulders hunch. “They destroyed whatever memories I had before they implanted his memories into me. I don’t—I don’t know how to be anybody else,” he mumbles.  
  
The air is very, very still. “I’m sorry,” Steve barely voices.  
  
He takes a long, deep breath.  
  
“I might be nothing except killer muscle reflexes and a bag of memories that aren’t mine, but _feel_ like they are. And I’m sorry I’m all you have left of—of him.”  
  
Steve doesn’t speak.  
  
“But you’re all I have, too,” he continues, softly. “So...so if you’ll have me, I’m yours. Whatever you want me to do, whoever you want me to be...I’ll do it. And if you don’t want me, just tell me, and I’ll go.”  
  
The words strip him raw as they leave his mouth, and he feels so exposed and vulnerable, standing there in the rain. Steve hangs his head. For a long time, there is only silence, broken by the faint patter of raindrops falling to the ground and soaking through his shirt.  
  
Just as he’s about to take the silence as a rejection, Steve reaches out with a quivering hand to grasp his left arm, and gently guides him to the bench, out of the rain. Warm fingers trace the sides of his face and thread themselves in his hair as Steve touches his forehead to his.  
  
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his voice thick and trembling. “It’s okay that you’re not him. You don’t have to be. You’re enough.”  
  
He starts to shake. “No,” he says, in a small, desperate voice, “I’m not, I’m _not_ enough, I just want to be someone who can make you happy—”  
  
“You already are,” Steve answers. “And you deserve to be happy, too.”  
  
The man who is what’s left of Bucky Barnes closes his eyes, his breath coming out in harsh sobs. For the first time, warm tears slide down his face.  
  
*  
  
“James.”  
  
He opens his eyes and looks at Steve from across the bed. “What?”  
  
“You need a name,” Steve says, reaching over to touch his face gently.  
  
He hesitates. “Are you sure that’s what it should be?”  
  
Steve’s eyes are as warm as a summer sky. “Absolutely.”  
  
“Okay, then.”  
  
The man who is now called James leans in closer, and Steve whispers his new name into his forehead, sealing it with a kiss. Something flutters in his chest, something that he thinks feels like hope.  
  
Because in that moment, he believes he can be human again.  
  
 _fin._

**Author's Note:**

> The Winter Soldier isn't Bucky.
> 
> Also, there is now a [coda](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1976526).


End file.
